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YOUTH WINS 


MURIEL HINE 

Author of “The Spell of Siris,” “The Flight,’’ 
“Torquil’s Success,’’ etc. 


“Non fate guerra al Maggio.” 

Lorenzo di Medici 



NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
1924 











FZs 


Copyright, 1924, 

By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc. 



PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY 

3The (fiumn & JSoben Company 

BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
RAHWAY NEW JERSEY 

OCT -7 1924 r\ 

X— 

©C1A808244 



To 

E. KATHLEEN GODDARD 















• 4 ' 

♦ 




YOUTH WINS 















YOUTH WINS 


CHAPTER I 

T HE journey from Paris had seemed endless. 

Although for the last hour the train had 
mounted wooded slopes, Mrs. Bickersteth’s eyes 
still ached from the glare of the sun on chalky hills. 
When they drew up at Bagnoles de l’Orne, she lowered 
herself on to the platform with the nervous deliberation 
of a solidly built woman recovering from an attack of 
phlebitis. 

She felt dusty and dishevelled as she stood there, her 
weight on her sound leg, wondering where Piper was 
and bewildered by the shrill voices of a group, obviously 
French, gathered round the adjacent door. Such unnec¬ 
essary vehemence! Mrs. Bickersteth frowned at them. 

But how smart the women looked! How exactly 
“right”—that was the word. The elderly lady, keen¬ 
eyed, became aware of defects, hitherto unrealized, in 
her own sober costume. Her hat was at the wrong angle; 
her skirt too short, whilst the coat was too long, though 
made on purpose for this visit by the tailor patronized 
by the county. (And a nice price he had charged too!) 
That dark woman was well over forty, not really slim 
when you looked closely, yet— Mrs. Bickersteth felt 

i 


2 YOUTH WINS 

puzzled. How did they keep the smooth wave in their 
hair when her own, still thick though grey, would “go 
flat” and the “ends” straggle? The desolation of the 
fifties descended on her like a cloud. 

No porters and where was Piper? 

Ah, she was getting old too. A faint feeling of satis¬ 
faction, difficult to analyze, revived Mrs. Bickersteth’s 
drooping spirits. Recovering her dignity, she moved 
stiffly past the vociferous group, her finely cut nostrils 
protesting against the heavy wave of perfume that ema¬ 
nated from the women. 

“And painted up to the eyes,” she decided. “That’s 
why they keep so fresh!” 

Through the thinning crowd she could see at last the 
hurrying figure of her maid, tight-lipped, neat and shriv¬ 
elled. Up she came, panting, vexed. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I couldn’t get out—all chat¬ 
tering in the corridor!” Under her breath she fumed, 
“And keeping you standing with that bag.” She re¬ 
trieved the well-worn article and proffered a bony arm. 
“Now, ma’am, if you’ll lean on me, I’ll see you safely 
to the bus and then come back for the luggage.” 

“One minute, Piper,” her mistress checked her. “Just 
look at that hat. No, there, on the woman in the beige 
dress. Don’t you think we could do something like it to 
the one I bought at Madame Olive’s? Give it a tilt up 
at the back?” 

Piper obediently gazed—and sniffed. 

“I don’t see any call for it, ma’am. She told you it 
was the latest fashion. A pity to spoil it, it suits you 
fine. What?” She glared at a porter who was volubly 


YOUTH WINS 


3 

demanding luggage. “Not yet,” she told him severely, 
and repeated it in a louder voice. 

Mrs. Bickersteth’s tired eyes twinkled. 

“Bientot ” she said graciously, and drew herself up 
when the man, with an angry shrug, flung back a retort. 

“Talk about manners!” snapped Piper. “But there, 
you don’t find ’em abroad. Now, ma’am.” She drew 
her forward. “I’ll be glad to get you into bed. You’re 
looking fairly done. Pardon?” They circled round a 
fat Frenchman and bumped into an excited child dressed 
in an aggressive tartan. “Your own fault—you should 
look!” Piper’s patience had given out. 

In the depth of her faithful heart she had long since 
decided that this “cure” was a desperate venture. Far 
better to have stayed at home—where you knew what 
was in the food. 

At length the weary business was over. Seated on the 
hot velvet of the stuffy omnibus, they rumbled across to 
the hotel, the journey a mere matter of minutes. 

“Might ’a’ walked and saved the fare,” Piper grumbled 
to herself. “I only hope there’ll be a lift that’s not the 
sort where they shuts you in, helpless, with a row of but¬ 
tons.” She straightened her bony shoulders. “Here we 
are, ma’am,” she said aloud. “Now, be careful of the 
step!” 

“Thank you, Piper, I can manage.” Mrs. Bickersteth, 
on her mettle, descended and entered the big hotel. 

The hall was gloomy and uninviting; the spruce clerk 
indifferent. He pointed to the register and proffered a 
needle-pointed pen. Mrs. Bickersteth removed her gloves 
and wrote, rather shakily, her name on the space indi- 


4 


YOUTH WINS 


cated, added “and maid,” with, beyond this, her address: 
“Torlish Manor, Devon, England.” 

A chasseur, airily swinging the keys, took them up in 
the lift, to Piper’s relief, and they halted at the first floor, 
insisted upon by Adela; Adela, her dear daughter, Mrs. 
Bickersteth thought confusedly, married so well—a dar¬ 
ling baby! She stepped out on to the corridor and evad¬ 
ing Piper’s intention—no arm here, it was carpeted— 
moved alone after the page, the maid sedately in her wake. 

A chambermaid bustled up, stout, benignant, and 
opened the door, with a cheerful: “Bon jour, madame” 
For the first floor brought good tips. 

Mrs. Bickersteth entered the room. 

“Oh!” She blinked with surprise and pleasure. 

For the sunshine was pouring in over a low balcony that 
ran the length of the pair of windows; a solidly built af¬ 
fair with a parapet of terra-cotta, like a theatre-box facing 
the stage, set for some pastoral comedy. It looked too 
fertile to be real after the long, arid journey. 

Wooded heights, deliciously green, were piled against 
the summer sky in a semi-circle enclosing a lake that 
shone in the near foreground; the white finger of a road 
pointed between gaps in the trees, or the sharp ear of a 
red roof rose from a hidden villa, on tiptoe, listening for a 
breath of romance. 

Expectation—the key-note of youth. Mrs. Bickersteth 
nodded wisely. The message had reached her susceptible 
heart. With an effort she drew her eyes away and sur¬ 
veyed her new quarters. A good room, she decided, bare 
yet ornate, lacking “our English sense of comfort.” 

“But nice and airy,” she said to Piper, “though the 


YOUTH WINS 


5 

bed’s rather high from the floor.” She moved nearer to 
the window. “It is pretty. Look at the lake!” 

But Piper was occupied, “measuring up” the chamber¬ 
maid. 

“Hot water, to drink —you understand?” She made a 
vague gesture towards her mouth. “A buver —for tea. 
Are they bringing that luggage up?” 

A loud bump outside the door answered the final ques¬ 
tion. Piper flew to retrieve the inverted picnic-hamper. 
Mrs. Bickersteth could hear behind her voices raised in 
expostulation, the shuffling of list slippers, more bumps 
and a man’s throat cleared with Gallic thoroughness. 

“Yes, I’m in France,” she mused. 

The door banged and Piper spoke. 

“I’ll soon get you a cup o’ tea, ma’am. You’d better 
come and lay down.” 

“In a minute. I must step out first.” She suited the 
action to the words. 

“Then you’ll have a chair,” Piper scolded. 

She seized the nearest one, in imitation Louis Quinze, 
wedged it through the opening and held it until her mis¬ 
tress subsided. 

“Piper, do look at the lake?” 

“Yes’m.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth turned her head. Piper had gone 
back to the luggage! The elderly lady sighed. 

“Treats me like a child,” she thought, leaning her arms 
on the parapet. “To be ordered about, at my age! I 
really get annoyed sometimes.” A sudden sense of in¬ 
gratitude smote her, a memory of long years of service. 
“Still, so devoted, I don’t know what I should do with- 


6 


YOUTH WINS 


out her. It comes of course from having been the chil¬ 
dren’s nurse in the early days. She’s got into the way 
of ruling. Well, I don’t see that it matters much,” she 
concluded comfortably, “so long as she doesn’t correct me 
in public. And it’s heavenly to be out of the train.” 

A little breeze, ruffling the lake beyond the road, stirred 
the bushes in the garden and wafted the scent of syringa 
. to her. The grass on the long slope was faded, though 
the month was only April, and the sand court for tennis 
glittered, shrouded in its wire nets like an enormous bird¬ 
cage. From this lower level, a flight of steps with terra¬ 
cotta balustrades rose to a wide terrace that stretched 
the length of the hotel. Peering down, she could see 
wicker chairs and little round tables, with marble tops, 
arranged in groups facing the view. It looked gay and 
inviting, suggesting a life passed in the open for purposes 
of leisure, of refreshment and conversation, as distinct 
from exercise. 

“Foreign,” dreamed Mrs. Bickersteth. “And how they 
love to talk!” 

She smiled at the thought. There would be plenty to 
study here from the vantage point of her theatre-box. 
She had a passion for watching people, inventing their 
life-histories, especially those of the young. Although 
her reasoning powers were faulty, she was often correct 
in a swift diagnosis of incipient love affairs. These were 
her speciality. The maternal instinct, strong in her, in¬ 
vited confidences too, piercing the reticent armour of 
youth. She was known privately, for miles round Torlish 
Manor, as “dear old Mrs. B.,” was aware of it and in¬ 
wardly proud, accepting the second adjective on the lips 


YOUTH WINS 


7 

of the younger generation as a proof of comradeship. 
Not really “old,” but in her prime. Fifty-four was only 
an early milestone on the long downhill road. “Though I 
shan’t pretend when I get there,” she thought. “But I’m 
not going to bury myself just yet.” 

A sound from below caught her attention. At this 
hour the terrace was bathed in silence, save for a steady 
murmuring voice directly beneath the balcony. Mrs. 
Bickersteth leaned forward, craning her neck, her knees 
pressed to the balustrade. 

There, in the shade thrown by the walls, stretched on 
a chaise-longue, was an old lady, placidly knitting, whilst, 
seated close beside her, a girl read aloud from a book in 
her hands. At a little distance, perched sideways on the 
parapet, a young man surveyed the garden, idly swinging 
a tennis-racket. These were the only hotel visitors in 
sight, save a pair of children playing ball on the lower 
path. 

Mrs. Bickersteth—a true woman—gave the young man 
her attention first. She liked the way he held himself in 
this careless position, shoulder-blades flat. She could see 
his tanned face in profile, vigorous and clean-cut, and she 
judged his age to be under thirty. 

“He ought to have a hat on,” she thought, “sitting in the 
blaze of the sun.” 

Her motherly heart warmed to him, noting the way his 
hair grew crisply, nut-brown on his well-shaped head, and 
the sinewy strength of his long hands. All young men 
were dear to her for the sake of a grave in Flanders. A 
slight film obscured her sight; Dicky had had the same 
bright hair. 


8 


YOUTH WINS 


Presently her interest deepened, as she caught him in a 
sidelong glance. She guessed why he was dawdling there. 
The attraction was the girl below and the sound of her 
soft, cool young voice. 

A wide-brimmed hat screened her face and Mrs. Bicker- 
steth peered in vain, as a fragment from the open book 
drifted up to her ears: 

“ ‘Then he went in and closed the door and there was 
silence in the garden.’ ” 

“English,” she thought delightedly. “The man too. 
He looks so clean.” 

From behind came Piper’s voice: 

“Now, ma’am, the bed’s all ready and the kettle will 
soon be on the boil.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth patiently rose to her feet. The edge 
of the parapet was dusty. She picked up her gloves lying 
there and gave them a vigorous shake. 

Something shot out of the chamois folds, caught the 
sun’s rays as it fell, and struck the tiled pavement below 
with a sharp, tinkling note. 

“My emerald ring!” The cry escaped her. 

The pair on the terrace looked up. Mrs. Bickersteth, 
even at such a moment, felt a thrill of curiosity. She 
caught a glimpse of a pale face, dead-gold hair and sap¬ 
phire eyes, under the disguising hat. Then her attention 
swerved. 

For the young man had slipped from his perch and was 
coming forward eagerly. 

“It’s rolled under your chair,” he told the girl. “Don’t 
you move—I’ll get it.” 


youth Wins 

Stooping, he thrust out a long arm, groped and retrieved 
the object. 

“Here it is,” he informed the owner cheerfully, his eyes 
raised to the balcony. “Would you like me to bring it 
up to you?” 

Mrs. Bickersteth beamed at him. 

“Oh, don’t trouble! My maid will fetch it. So many 
thanks.” She looked down at the old lady. “I hope it 
didn’t startle you? It was lodged in my glove and when 
I shook it—” 

“Not at all,” said the other suavely. 

She seemed to ignore the young man. He stood there, 
hesitating. Then he handed the ring to the girl. 

“Perhaps you’d better take care of it.” 

She received it from him without a word, without so 
much as an answering glance, holding it in her slender 
fingers, apparently absorbed in the object. 

“Thank you,” said the old lady coldly. 

It was a dismissal. The young man nodded, wheeled 
round and made his way to the door that led into the 
hotel. 

Mrs. Bickersteth felt sorry for him. 

“Snubbed,” she thought. “And he didn’t deserve it!. 
Apparently they’re not acquainted.” 

This upset her theories. 

Piper, summoned by her cry, had already started on her 
mission. Mrs. Bickersteth saw her emerge and walk, 
in her own distinctive fashion, which suggested energy, 
discretion, and a careful balance between respect and a 
knowledge of her own worth, in the direction of the pair. 

“Now,” thought Mrs. Bickersteth, and watched the en- 


YOUTH WINS 


to 

counter eagerly. “If they’re all right,” she thought, 
‘“they’ll be nice. If not, they’ll snub Piper too.” 

Nothing could have been more gracious than the re¬ 
ception afforded her maid. She heard the old lady say: 
“I hope it hasn’t loosened the stone?” and Piper’s prim 
rejoinder. 

She was lost now in the shade of the walls, but the 
sound of her flat feet on the tiles rose to Mrs. Bicker- 
steth’s ears. 

The girl had opened the book again. 

“Shall I go on?” she asked the old lady. 

“Do, my dear, unless you’re tired.” She gathered up 
her discarded knitting. 

Mrs. Bickersteth, above, with the sense of a scolding 
awaiting her, made use of the short reprieve to study the 
older woman. There was something both charming and 
intriguing about the slight figure, stretched at ease, and 
the picture she achieved of age, dignified yet faintly co¬ 
quettish. Her white hair was swept back from a forehead 
singularly free from lines and arranged in soft rolls on 
either temple. Over this was thrown a mantilla of Spanish 
lace, raised on a comb, the long ends knotted together 
and fastened by a pearl brooch. The delicate pink of her 
skin was enhanced by the sombre lace and by the shawl 
drawn round her shoulders, also black, with a silk fringe, 
and embroidered in heavily raised flowers, roses paled 
by time and use. A light rug was spread over her knees, 
but one foot had escaped the folds, shod in suMe with a 
steel buckle. 

It was a foot which a girl might have envied, slender 
and arched, the ankle above, in its gossamer silk stocking, 


YOUTH WINS 


ii 


equally neat and arresting. Round her slight wrists were 
bands of black velvet secured by antique pearl clasps. 
Pearls gleamed in her little ears, and the mantilla was 
held in place by a tiny arrow set with brilliants. 

“She looks like a French Marquise in the days of the 
guillotine,” Mrs. Bickersteth romanced. “I suppose they 
must be mother and daughter, though the girl is a dif¬ 
ferent type—Saxon. But why did they snub that good- 
looking boy? Coming, Piper!” Regretfully, she backed 
through the open window. 

Refreshed by an hour’s sleep, Mrs. Bickersteth went 
down to dinner on the stroke of the gong. 

Passing a mirror in the hall, she glanced sideways at 
her reflection. She was thoroughly satisfied. Last year’s 
garden-party dress, with the new trimming from Deben- 
ham’s that had cost seventeen and sixpence a yard, the 
jet comb upright in her hair and the London corsets which 
Adela had insisted upon—six suspenders that made the 
stockings so tight at the top, but certainly improved the 
figure—and Grannie’s old Chantilly shawl, beautifully 
darned by Piper. She could “hold her own” among the 
French! In England, patriotism was silent, not exactly 
good form, but once safely across the Channel she must 
not give way to “foreigners.” Especially at this juncture 
when the French were behaving disgracefully—every one 
in Torlish said so—over the question of the Ruhr. 

This was the sum of her thoughts as she entered the 
long dining-room and was steered to a distant table in 
the folds of the leather screen that disguised the way to 
the kitchen. 


12 


YOUTH WINS 


She settled her skirts and looked around her. 

On her left, almost at her elbow, the recess held another 
table, laid for one. A wide gulf divided the pair from a 
family party in the window, easy to diagnose; Gallic, 
adorned with napkins as bibs, vociferous, the elders ab¬ 
sorbed in the two little girls in their smart frocks and the 
son and heir, aged about twelve, with a white, precocious 
face and long legs bare to the thighs, ending in short 
striped socks and untanned yellow boots. 

The legs shocked Mrs. Bickersteth as the boy twined 
them under his chair. There was nothing childish about 
them; they were nude and swarthy—unpardonable! 

The boy’s sly eyes swerved to her face, aware of her 
disapproving glance. He leaned sideways sinuously and 
whispered in his father’s ear. There followed a shrill ex¬ 
plosion of mirth that rippled round the crowded table. 

Mrs. Bickersteth stared past them, her Roman nose 
elevated, her eyes fixed on the door. 

It opened, and in came the young man of the terrace 
episode. 

He looked well in his dinner-jacket. The white ex¬ 
panse of shirt-front enhanced the healthy bronze of his 
skin—the result of hotter skies than these—and the clear¬ 
ness of his grey eyes. There was nothing to beat an 
Anglo-Saxon, that cold-tubbed look, the spectator de¬ 
cided. 

He made his way easily in a bee-line for the screen. 

“I believe he’s coming here,” she thought, and a touch 
of excitement warmed her cheeks, still smooth and fresh, 
above the folds of her double chin. 

As he passed her table, she glanced at him, smiled 


YOUTH WINS 


1 3 


slightly and bowed. She divined a secret surprise and 
pleasure in his answering salutation. 

“Poor boy, I believe he’s lonely!” she thought. 

He settled himself in the chair on her left, picked up 
the menu, ran through it, and looked shyly at his neigh¬ 
bour. 

Mrs. Bickersteth opened the attack. 

“I must thank you for finding my ring,” she said. “It’s 
quite all right.” She touched the finger on which her 
treasure hung loosely, the result of weeks in bed which 
had thinned her “in the wrong places.” So she had writ¬ 
ten to Adela. “I was so afraid that the fall might have 
chipped the emerald. They’re such brittle stones and, 
as it happens, I’m very fond of this one. It was my 
mother’s engagement ring. But it isn’t even scratched,” 
she concluded. 

“That’s lucky,” the young man responded. “I don’t 
know much about stones, but it seemed a mighty fine 
ring.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth’s brown eyes narrowed. Not only the 
transatlantic expression, but something about his intona¬ 
tion brought a doubt into her mind. Characteristically, 
she proceeded to clear the ground at once. 

“I was wondering who would come to your table,” she 
said in her pleasant, slow voice, and paused for the waiter 
to lay down her soup-plate. “And I hoped it would be 
some one English. I’m not very good at speaking French, 
although, of course, I know the language, and when one’s 
alone—” She left it unfinished. 

“Sure.” The word was sympathetic. More so were 
the grey eyes turned on her for a minute. 


14 


YOUTH WINS 


“Then you are English?” she insisted. 

“Rather!” He smiled. “Did you think I was Ameri¬ 
can? I suppose it’s from having lived there for the last 
five years. This is my first trip home since I went to 
California. I’ve been already chaffed about it,” he added 
confidentially. “It’s catching, you know, the way they 
speak. And”—he hesitated—“quicker. That’s what 
struck me on my return. We don’t have the same vivid 
expressions. But everything’s slower. Not that I don’t 
love old England—and especially since the War and the 
way she has stood being taxed to the limit and is paying 
off her debts—but sometimes I wish she’d get a move on! 
Not only in business but—other ways.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth felt that the young man had checked 
himself. She looked at him inquiringly, an invitation in 
her glance. 

“Yes?” So soft and comfortable was her voice that 
her neighbour yielded to it. 

“Well, for instance, you’re the first stranger who has 
spoken to me anywhere since I left the boat at Liverpool. 
I’ve been here a full week,” he complained, “and I was 
getting desperate! Of course, from the French, one 
doesn’t expect it, but one’s own countrymen— You see, 
in the War it was different. I didn’t exactly realize that 
we’d gone back to the old ways.” His voice sounded 
apologetic, but there was faint pain in his eyes. 

Mrs. Bickersteth remembered the snub administered on 
the terrace. She gave him her most motherly smile, 
pleased by his spontaneity. 

“It must have been dreadfully dull for you. Are there 
many English here?” 


YOUTH WINS 


i5 

“No.” His attention was diverted. 

Mrs. Bickersteth followed his glance. Through the 
doorway afar she could see the pair approaching who 
were uppermost in her mind: the little old lady, pictur¬ 
esque in a gown of grey taffeta that shone like silver as 
she moved, the tall, pale girl by her side, her golden head 
held languidly on the frail column of her neck, her sap¬ 
phire eyes half-closed under the full, drooping lids. 

For a second, as she gazed at them, Mrs. Bickersteth 
was caught by a disturbing illusion. It seemed to her that 
their roles were inverted: that age had changed places 
with youth. 

That silvery figure, so light on her feet, so dainty and 
vivacious, advanced with a subtle air of conquest, one 
hand on her daughter’s arm, bowing and smiling to friends 
as she passed, whilst the girl in her narrow, russet frock, 
seemed her shadow, sad as an autumn leaf swayed by the 
wind and aware that the glamour of summer had de¬ 
parted. 

The head-waiter hurried forward to usher the pair to 
a central table with every mark of respect. He took from 
the girl a soft, grey cloak, with a collar of chinchilla and 
draped it on the back of the older woman’s chair, beckoned 
to an understudy, bowed, smiled and departed. 

The commonplace incident restored the watcher’s nor¬ 
mal balance. Once more she placed them as mother and 
daughter. 

The old lady glanced behind her and gave a pettish 
shrug of her shoulders under their fichu of Mechlin lace. 
Immediately the young one rose and arranged the cloak 
round the fragile form, carefully, leaving her arms free. 


i6 


YOUTH WINS 


Mrs. Bickersteth watched this approvingly, yet with a 
sense of something missing, a link with the past which 
she could not catch. She turned again to her table neigh¬ 
bour. 

“It’s odd,” she said. “I have a feeling that I’ve met 
those two before—the table you are looking at. Do you 
happen to know their name?” 

She saw him give a little start, as if he had forgotten 
her presence. 

“The old lady with the daughter? It’s Verney—the 
Honourable Mrs. Verney.” 

“No?” Mrs. Bickersteth was excited. “But of course 
I’ve met them! Down in Norfolk. Years ago, before the 
War. They came to a house where we were staying—to 
a tennis-party—and every one was talking about Miss 
Verney’s engagement to Roland Scrope. So young, only 
seventeen, and such a brilliant match.” She paused, 
aware of the young man’s expression, startled and in¬ 
credulous. 

“Before the War? But she isn’t married.” 

“No—let me think? He was killed. In the same year 
as—as our son. The girl must be”—she made a swift 
calculation—“nearly twenty-seven now.” 

“Killed?” He was frowning. “Is that why she looks 
like that?” 

“Like what?” Again Mrs. Bickersteth felt both curious 
and uneasy. There was something wrong, then? 

“Oh, I don’t know.” His voice was muffled. “As if 
life weren’t good enough.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth nodded dumbly; she was always 
afraid of bones in fish. 


YOUTH WINS 


17 

“Of course,” said the young man hastily, “I’m only 
talking by guess work. I don’t—er—know them to speak 
to, but being English, I’m interested. More than in the 
foreign crowd. Especially as we travelled together. That 
is, as far as Paris.” 

“No? And then you found them here?” Mrs. Bicker- 
steth nobly signed to the waiter, who bore off the remains 
of her whiting. Her instinct for romance had triumphed 
over her appetite. “You stayed in Paris?” 

“The week-end.” He looked nervous. “Then I got 
fed-up with it. Somehow in the War it seemed more 
cheery altogether. Contrast, I reckon, or perhaps having 
pals blow in.” 

Into Mrs. Bickersteth’s brain flashed an illuminating 
thought. He had learned the Verneys’ destination and 
followed them blindly to Bagnoles! Love at first sight? 
They had met on the boat and he had got into their car¬ 
riage at Calais. Luggage-labels? Her heart glowed. 
Unless— She must settle this doubt at once. 

“Are you taking the cure here?” she inquired. 

“In a sort of way.” He avoided her glance. 

“Not for phlebitis, surely?” 

“What’s that?” 

She explained: a clot in a vein from some accident, or 
a gouty tendency. 

“My own trouble,” she added bravely. “My father 
was a martyr to gout.” 

“Hard luck,” said the young man. “But it’s gone now, 
I hope?” He looked quite anxious until she had reassured 
him. “Mine’s only rheumatism, which I picked up in 
the trenches. Seemed to me a sound move to stun it at 


i8 


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one of these French places during my holiday abroad. 
Not that it troubles me often now, thanks to a dry cli¬ 
mate.” 

“You’re quite right to take it in time.” Mrs. Bicker- 
steth hid her amusement. She guessed that it was an ex¬ 
cuse. Why should a healthy young man spend his holiday 
at a thermal station among a crowd of invalids? And 
this wasn’t even like Aix or Vichy. She added, with a 
flicker of mischief, “Though I didn’t understand that 
Bagnoles was good for rheumatic complaints?” 

“Oh, it’s good for anything,” he laughed, “according to 
the resident doctors.” 

“I suppose so.” Mrs. Bickersteth’s chin vibrated in 
sympathy with her thoughts. “This isn’t goat, is it?” She 
examined the meat on her plate. “I’ve always been afraid 
of goat since I once stayed in Switzerland and ate it with¬ 
out knowing.” 

“Veal, according to the menu.” 

A pause ensued, for Mrs. Bickersteth was hungry. Be¬ 
tween mouthfuls, her gaze sought the central table. What 
a romance! She saw her way to helping that nice boy by 
her side. Yes, a proper introduction. Of course Mrs.. 
Verney was careful, with a beautiful girl like that. But— 
was she beautiful? Mrs. Bickersteth scrutinized her. 
Her features were delicately chiselled; her hair and eyes 
would move an artist. Yet always there was that missing 
factor: a sense of youth and vitality. 

“Anaemic,” Mrs. Bickersteth thought. “If she were my 
daughter I’d give her iron. She’s too lethargic. Her lips 
are pale. It can’t be from the old shock now? At nine¬ 
teen a girl forgets. Time is merciful to the young. 


YOUTH WINS 


19 

Though I wonder she didn’t marry him. A long engage¬ 
ment, two years? Especially in those days when young 
people refused to wait. And even before! I remember 
the time we went through when Henry and Christabel 
were married. Such a rush getting the trousseau. Still, 
they’re very happy now. Youth sometimes knows best.” 

She refused the vegetable course. Why couldn’t they 
serve it with the meat? Such diminutive peas—not worth 
eating. Bottled perhaps? Her thoughts slipped back to 
her first meeting with the Verneys. In those happy days 
before the War—yes, in 1913—and the easy country life, 
hospitable, hedged about with reverence for her own class, 
with neighbourly feeling and traditions. She could see 
once more the pretty girl— “Joceline,” that was her name! 
—in the first bloom of her youth, radiant, walking with 
her lover, laughing, talking, suddenly shy when congratu¬ 
lations were showered on the pair. In those days she had 
a colour that came and went in her rounded cheeks, her 
hair as bright as spun silk. But the mother—Mrs. Bicker- 
steth wondered, as a picture slowly rose in her mind. 

A background figure, slight and dark, carefully dressed 
in a country fashion, redeemed from insignificance by her 
dignified manner and well-bred voice, but with none of her 
present allurement. She had then been past her prime, 
for her daughter had come to her late in life, and she 
suffered from indifferent health, a little overpowered by, 
her husband, a well-known shot and keen sportsman, her 
junior by ten years. Mrs. Bickersteth suddenly remem¬ 
bered that he had been killed during the War, the victim 
of a Zeppelin raid on an East Coast town, where he had 
served in some official capacity. 


20 


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A widow? Did that account for the change? Mrs. 
Bickersteth was intrigued. 

“It’s strange,” she thought, “how in England one meets 
so many widows and so few widowers. It’s the men who 
marry again.” 

How often, too, widowhood seemed to renew the youth 
in a certain shallow type of woman. What was the se¬ 
cret? A sense of power, of holding the reins of govern¬ 
ment in indisputed command of the income? At least 
when the survivor was rich, and the Verneys all possessed 
money. Despite sorrow, to reign at last, unchallenged; 
to “own” instead of sharing. To be free—Mrs. Bicker¬ 
steth, old-fashioned and loving her quiet husband, shrank 
from the obvious conclusion—free, to attract other men. 
An Indian summer of Romance. 

Immediately she felt ashamed. Here was no “mutton 
dressed as lamb,” but a picturesque old lady, with a de¬ 
voted child. She could see Joceline lean forward and fill 
her parent’s empty glass from the half-bottle of white 
wine, and the mother’s airy gesture of amusement and re¬ 
proof. 

“They seem very fond of one another.” 

“Yes,” the man on her left agreed, for, unconsciously, 
she had spoken aloud. 

Something in the way he said it caught her attention. 
She looked at him. His eyes were unsmiling, his lips 
compressed. 

“Jealous,” she thought, amused. 

“Hot in here, isn’t it?” he suggested presently. “I’m 
going to have my coffee outside.” 

With this, he rose from the table. 


YOUTH WINS 


21 


As he passed hers, he paused for a moment. 

“Shall I keep a chair for you on the terrace?” he asked 
her rather shyly. “There’s a run on them when people 
turn out.” 

“That’s very nice of you.” Mrs. Bickersteth beamed 
at him, as he stood, straight and tall, beside her. “But 
I don’t think this evening—I’m rather tired from my jour¬ 
ney. Another night. Do tell me your name?” 

“Oliver Trench,” he answered promptly. 

“And I’m Mrs. Bickersteth. You’ll never remember 
that,” she laughed. 

“You bet I shall.” He gave her a sunny glance. “Well, 
good night. Hope you’ll sleep.” 

She watched him thread his way through the still 
crowded room. She noticed that he chose a route avoid¬ 
ing the central table, his head rather rigid on his shoul¬ 
ders. 

“He’s proud,” she thought. “I like that. Well, to¬ 
morrow I shall speak to the Verneys, remind them of our 
old acquaintance. Then—” She gave a wise little smile. 

It was strange, she thought complacently, how fate so 
often singled her out to act providence to the young. 

The young? At that instant, Joceline Verney rose to 
her feet. She seemed to feel Mrs. Bickersteth’s kindly 
glance, for she stared down the long room, her blue eyes 
wide open. Her face was still and void of expression, the 
pale lips firmly closed. To Mrs. Bickersteth, startled, it 
seemed to hold the resignation of age. She recalled the 
young man’s description: “As if life weren’t good 
enough!” 


CHAPTER II 


J OCELINE VERNEY stood on the steps watching 
her mother start for a drive with a certain Lady 
Carnedin, a Bagnoles habituee whom they had met 
the year before. 

She could see the old lady’s bright eyes turned towards 
the latter, her lips moving mischievously, and hear her 
companion’s staccato laugh. Then the bright eyes moved 
to the girl and Mrs. Verney waved her hand; the tires 
bit the chalky road, and the car vanished out of sight in 
a white cloud of dust. 

Joceline turned and re-entered the lounge. 

Two hours to herself, at last! What would she do with 
them? She stood, looking on to the sunny terrace, silent 
in the afternoon hours, when most of the visitors were 
driving or taking a siesta, and a little shiver ran over her 
shoulders. Strange how she always was chilly now? She 
felt a longing for the sunshine, to lie in it, like a lizard, 
and bask. 

Avoiding their accustomed corner, she dragged a chair 
to the parapet, close to the flight of steps, dropped into it 
and closed her eyes. 

Two hours of warm silence, freed from the endless 
strain of attention; of “No, mother” and “Yes, mother,” 
with the smile at the right moment when Mrs. Verney’s 
light wit played on the people round them, or resur¬ 
rected time-worn jokes—that intimate trial of family life. 
22 


YOUTH WINS 


23 


She loved her mother, but she was tired. Always tired. 
Why was it? Even now she could not rest; her head 
ached and her feet were cold. 

She opened her eyes and leaned forward, her slender 
arms on the warm brick; an attitude that seemed to re¬ 
lieve her, although she did not guess the cause, that it 
helped the heart’s action. From below, a child’s happy 
laughter drifted up and she turned her head in the direc¬ 
tion of the sound. 

Two figures were caught in the glittering bird-cage. 
She watched them incuriously. Trench, with a racket in 
his hand, was serving soft and easy balls to one of the 
French children who were his neighbours at table d’hote. 

The little girl darted about like a bright-hued butterfly 
and screamed with joy whenever she managed to hoist 
the ball back over the net. She held the racket, which 
was her brother’s, awkwardly, in both hands. The young 
man was laughing too, at the small player’s antics. Joce- 
line watched them wistfully. They looked so alive and 
childishly happy, as if the world were their playground 
and their bodies would never tire. But presently, with 
one of those swift changes of mood known to childhood, 
the little girl caught sight of her brother, mounted on his 
bicycle, scorching round the lower path, his body bent 
until his chin nearly touched the handle-bar, bare legs 
working furiously, and she threw down her racket, discon¬ 
tented. Off she went, through the wired door, without 
another thought of Trench. 

“Pierre, Pierre!” she cried shrilly, running across the 
scorched grass. 

The young man, left to himself, picked up the scattered 


24 


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balls and began to practise serving. Joceline could see 
his long arm swing up over his head, his body taut as he 
put his weight into each lightning stroke. She watched 
him, hypnotized by the easy strength of his movements. 
She wondered what he was doing here, so far from his 
native land; for, in common with Mrs. Bickersteth, she 
had placed him as an American. 

In time he tired of the one-sided game, slung the balls 
over his racket, and emerged, to make his way along the 
upper path to the steps. As he mounted these, he saw 
the girl, her elbows on the parapet, chin cupped in her 
hands. 

The light sprang up in his face. Alone? And the ter¬ 
race void of guests, with no sign of her watchful parent. 

He looked deliberately up at her and caught her eyes, 
so deeply blue, with that baffling, blank suggestion behind 
them, and his blood quickened. For into them had leaped 
a remote spark, not of recognition, but of youth answer¬ 
ing the call of youth. 

Should he risk it—the chance of another snub? For a 
moment he wrestled with his pride; then something in the 
droop of her shoulders swept it aside, to be replaced by a 
wave of tenderness. He had reached her level and he 
paused, swinging the net of balls by its string and gather¬ 
ing his courage together. 

“Would you—do you play tennis?” he stammered. 

She drew her hands from her face, startled. 

“I? No.” Something drove her to add, “I used to. 
Years ago.” 

“Then you’d soon get into it again.” Now he was 
speaking quickly, as though time were all that mattered, 


YOUTH WINS 


25 

this breathing-space without her parent. “It’s quite a de¬ 
cent court—not so good as grass, of course, but swifter. 
Do have just one game? It would be—so kind of you.” 

Joceline shook her head. 

“I don’t play. And it’s too hot.” 

“You wouldn’t feel it once you’d started, and it seems 
cooler down there.” 

“I can’t.” She leaned back in her chair, resisting the 
urge of his will. “I don’t want to. I’ve a headache.” 

His face changed. 

“That’s bad.” But he did not move. Instead, he 
leaned against the pillar supporting a terra-cotta vase in 
which some weedy geraniums straggled. “I could cure it,” 
he said simply. 

She stared at him, taken aback. Through her mind 
there darted the thought that Americans were “like that,” 
dispensing with formalities. 

He seemed to be waiting for her response. 

“I suppose you mean with some drug?” she asked, in 
her clear, cool voice. “Thanks, but I never take them.” 

“No, a much simpler way.” He was smiling now, more 
assured. She hadn’t given him his conge. “I’ll tell you.” 
He swung himself up on the parapet easily. Now they 
were almost face to face. “Where I live—in California— 
a neighbour of ours has a little girl, a dear kid, but deli¬ 
cate. And she used to get thundering headaches. Well, 
I found out, quite by accident, that I could take them 
away. You mustn’t think me a crank,” he urged, “faith- 
cure and all that, but I do believe that many people can 
help the sick if they’re fit themselves. I know I can, be¬ 
cause I’ve proved it.” 


26 


YOUTH WINS 


Against her will, she was interested. 

“By hypnotism?” On the word, she stiffened un¬ 
easily. 

“Certainly not. That’s dangerous, unless you’ve studied 
medicine.” He paused, for he saw a faint spasm of pain 
cross her brow and her eyes narrow. “You have got a 
bad headache!” He leaned towards her impulsively. 
“Just give me your hands?” 

She recoiled, with a swift upward glance. But his face 
was as grave and pitiful as that of a doctor treating a 
child. 

“Don’t be silly,” he said gently. “It is silly to suffer 
pain when there’s no need for it. You can trust me— 
you can, really.” His eyes for a moment swept the row 
of windows above with their closed shutters and the door 
leading into the empty lounge. Before she could defend 
herself he had stooped and captured her lax hands and 
was holding them firmly in his own. “Now, lean back, 
close your eyes and think of nothing,” he commanded. 

She was baffled by the unexpected turn of affairs. The 
man was mad, but what could she do? To struggle would 
be undignified. The words of protest died on her lips. 
Those grey eyes studying her were so honest and pitiful, 
with never a suspicion in them of an unworthy motive. 
He believed in himself and his theories. Another stab 
pierced her head and she felt limp and powerless. Let him 
cure her, if he could! But she watched him under lowered 
lids. 

“That’s right! Now relax your muscles. Soon the pain 
will begin to go.” He saw the flutter of her lashes, a 
darker colour than her hair, silky and fine, as she spied 


YOUTH WINS 


27 

on his movements. “Close them tight—that’s no use! 
This glare is the worst thing for you.” 

Joceline’s last defences fell under that hushed but vir¬ 
ile voice. There was something comforting in those sup¬ 
ple hands supporting hers, the finger-tips pressed against 
her wrists. She could feel the strong beat of his pulse 
and an odd tingling in her veins, a current that slowly 
mounted her arm, quickening her circulation. 

“All imagination!” she thought. 

Nevertheless, the tense strain behind her eyes that had 
felt like a cord drawing them back was slowly relaxing, 
bringing peace. She slipped into a half-dream, lulled by 
the drowsy heat. 

Trench looked down at the hands he held, with the blue 
veins too visible beneath the transparent skin, and the 
filbert nails devoid of colour. Then his glance travelled 
upwards; to her neck, wasted yet still well-shaped, thanks 
to the smallness of the bones; to the face that, in repose, 
might have been that of a young saint, worn out by long 
vigils, violet shadows under the eyes. His heart sank. 
Was it too late? Finally, he studied her mouth, with its 
sensitive upper lip, the lower one pale, yet full, no longer 
repressed, but promising all that Nature bequeathed to 
her children. 

With an effort he controlled his thoughts, concentrating 
his strong will, as the slow minutes ticked away. 

“It’s going,” he breathed. 

Joceline stirred. 

“It’s gone!” She opened her blue eyes and stared up 
at him, bewildered. 

“Don’t move!” he spoke quickly. “Just a few seconds 


28 


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longer. . . . Now!” There was triumph in the word. 
Reluctantly, he dropped her hands. 

She saw that his face looked strained under the healthy 
tan. He straightened his back as a man will when he 
fights against fatigue. Impulsively she voiced her 
thoughts: 

“I oughtn’t to have let you! I believe you have the 
headache now? Sure?” For he had shaken his head. 
“But how do you do it? It’s marvellous.” 

“That’s my secret.” He smiled at her. “I guess I 
won’t give it away—my one parlour trick!” 

“It isn’t Coue?” 

“No, it’s mine.” He was watching, with a touch of 
excitement, the faint colour in her cheeks. She seemed to 
him to have “come alive,” like the old story of Galatea. 
He had breathed life into her with the ardour of his secret 
love. That chiselled face, which was meant to be young, 
but had given its strength to— He checked himself, a 
cold hand on his heart. 

For suddenly the girl stiffened; the happy light died 
out of her eyes. A clock in the town had struck the 
hour, four dull notes, still vibrating. 

“I must go.” She rose to her feet. “But—thank you 
very much.” 

“One minute—there’s something I want to say.” He 
spoke rather breathlessly. “You oughtn’t to get these 
headaches. Don’t you ever take a walk? I see you driv¬ 
ing with your mother, but that isn’t exercise.” 

She looked at him with the old expression, reserved and 
incurious. 

“I haven’t much time. Not during the cure.” 


YOUTH WINS 


29 


“But when she’s at the Baths?” he urged, and threw dis¬ 
cretion to the winds. He might never get this chance 
again. “I know it’s dull walking alone. Come with me? 
I’d show you the woods. They’re fine—you’d love them. 
I’d be so proud.” 

She looked past him deliberately, her arched brows 
drawn together. 

“I can’t. As it is—” She broke off. 

He came a step nearer her. 

“What’s taken you now?” he asked. “There’s some¬ 
thing wrong. You might tell me.” 

She was seized by a sense of ingratitude, for there was 
a hurt note in his voice. 

“I’m afraid that my mother—” She started again. 
“My mother has not moved with the times. She wouldn’t, 
for instance, approve—” 

It was impossible to explain. But Trench boldly fin¬ 
ished the sentence: 

“Of this afternoon? I understand. But of course 
that’s our affair. If you wish it”—he swallowed hard— 
“we haven’t met and we haven’t spoken. I don’t want 
to be a nuisance.” He drew himself up to his full height. 

“Oh, please —” Her upper lip quivered. She could not 
tell him of Mrs. Verney’s strange peculiarity: her jealous 
mistrust of any young man who was attracted to the girl. 
She fell back on the obvious excuse. “Perhaps, if you 
knew some one here who could introduce you—properly?” 

“Is that it?” His face cleared. Suddenly he laughed 
outright, remembering Mrs. Bickersteth. “If I can work 
that,” he countered, “will you come for a walk with me? 
It’s not sheer selfishness, but I’ve seen—I gather—” In 


YOUTH WINS 


30 

his turn he broke off nervously. “You should think of 
yourself more,” he told her. “Why can’t you come dur¬ 
ing the hour of your mother’s bath?” 

“But that’s at 8.30,” she protested. 

“I know. I mean, it couldn’t be better, as I go to mine 
at 7.00. I’ll be right here on the terrace. You’ve only 
got to hunt round for me.” 

“Well, I’ll see.” She turned away. 

He walked with her as far as the door. On the thresh¬ 
old she hesitated. Her blue eyes searched his face. 

“I do feel better. Really, I do.” 

“That’s fine,” said Trench simply, and stepped back 
into the sunshine. 

When she had vanished through the lounge, he went to 
the deserted chair and threw himself into it, his brown 
head where her fair one had lain. Was there a faint per¬ 
fume, aromatic and haunting, from her hair? His hands 
gripped the cane arms and his mouth set obstinately. 

“I don’t care,” he said to himself.- “I’m going on. She’s 
worth it!” 

Meanwhile Joceline mounted the stairs, disdaining the 
use of the lift. At the top she paused. Although it was 
only the first floor, she was breathless, her heart thump¬ 
ing. 

“Yes, I do want exercise,” she decided. “I’m thor¬ 
oughly out of condition. But fancy his noticing that?” 

She bit her lip and hurried down the corridor to her 
room, which was opposite her mother’s. It faced the north 
and seemed always cheerless, shut into the angle of the 
porch. Once inside, she locked the door, with a nervous 
glance at her travelling clock, opened her trunk and dived 


YOUTH WINS 


3i 

down for a small flannel-covered board and an electric 
iron. She connected the latter with one of the lights and, 
moving to the window, took down two pairs of silver-grey 
stockings, hanging on a primitive line, and a row of little 
handkerchiefs in fine lawn with a tulle border. Soon she 
was busy ironing. 

But as she neatly damped and pressed, her mind was 
divided. The adventure on the terrace appeared more 
than ever grotesque. To sit there, eyes closed, and let a 
stranger hold her hands! Faint amusement warred with 
her pride. What ever would her mother have said? Yet 
the memory of the young man’s kindness, the honesty of 
his clear eyes, and his boyish triumph in success persisted 
and brought a feeling of sunshine into the narrow, grey 
room. She was stirred out of her lethargy; even her hands 
seemed quicker and soon the task was completed. Care¬ 
fully she removed all traces of her guilt and replaced the 
electric globe. 

“Though the hotel people charge quite enough to make 
this justifiable,” she decided, stifling a qualm of con¬ 
science. 

She carried the little pile of lawn and silk across the 
deserted corridor. Her mother’s room, when she entered 
it, was filled with a warm green light from the closed 
shutters that made her think for a second of the shady 
woods. That walk proposed by Trench? She frowned 
as she opened the wardrobe and took down a dress for 
her mother to wear, laying it with other trifles across a 
chair, searched for a chamois leather and polished the 
backs of the tortoise-shell brushes with their gold mono¬ 
grams, costly like all Mrs. Verney’s appointments. 


32 


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Glancing up, she caught sight of herself in the mirror, 
a faint colour in her cheeks. 

“Why, I even look better,” she thought. “But how dull 
my hair is getting!” 

Her eyes fell on a bottle of brilliantine and swerved to 
the clock. Yes, there was time for it. Back she went to 
her own room, the little bottle in her hand—her mother's 
special brilliantine made up with the scent she preferred. 

Out came the tortoise-shell pins and the great coil, like 
a golden serpent, fell to below her waist. She began to 
brush it vigorously, over the towel pinned round her 
shoulders, feeling an odd sense of pleasure. 

“It's beautiful still.” Her lips curved. 

Somewhere, deep down in her, vanity had stirred to 
life. 

A sudden distaste for the way in which she was wont to 
arrange it seized her, a flower of the tiny seed of rebel¬ 
lion implanted by that strange young man. Instead of 
drawing it back from her temples into the classical knot 
so long approved by Mrs. Verney, Joceline parted the 
gleaming mass, leaving it loose above her ears and wound 
the rest round her small head. 

Now she looked quite different. The soft background 
gave to her face a new expression, of wistful youth. 

“Like a moth,” she thought, “with fluffy wings, instead 
of a hard, little beetle!” 

She laughed, and the sound startled her. On the heels 
of it came another. A car was drawing up at the porch 
with the harsh grinding of the brakes. She peered out 
and turned to fly. Her mother—and no one to receive 
her! 


YOUTH WINS 


33 

When, breathless, she reached the hall, she saw Mrs. 
Verney, standing alone, loosening the fastening of her 
cloak. 

“Oh, there you are!” Her voice was pettish. “I’m 
very tired, Joceline.” 

Her daughter helped her into the lift. 

“I hope you haven’t gone too far.” 

“A little,” Mrs. Verney conceded, as she settled herself 
on the velvet seat. She lowered her voice, for Joceline 
alone, as the boy began to work the ropes. “The drive 
was quite beautiful, but Lady Carnedin would talk! 
There’s nothing so tiring as having to listen—the perpetual 
strain of attention.” Her dark eyes ran over the girl. 
“Whatever have you done to your hair?” 

“I’ve been brushing it,” Joceline evaded. 

“The style, I mean.” The old lady spoke sharply. “So 
untidy! It doesn’t suit you. Yours is the classical type. 
You can’t afford vagaries.” 

The lift stopped and they got out. 

“I wanted a change,” said the girl. 

Something in the tone she employed arrested Mrs. Ver¬ 
ney’s attention. She leaned still more heavily on her 
daughter’s arm, her steps dragging. 

Joceline gave her an anxious glance. 

“You’re tired out! You must lie down.” She was glad 
when they reached the south room. 

Mrs. Verney, in silence, gave herself up to the girl’s 
ministrations. Soon she was peacefully in bed, watching 
the other fold her clothes and light the spirit-lamp under 
the kettle. Joceline, moving noiselessly, drew a table to 
her mother’s side and arranged the contents of the little 


34 


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tea-hamper, taking from their cardboard box the cakes 
she had bought that morning at Guyot’s. 

After the first cup, Mrs. Verney became conversational, 
where she lay, propped up against the pillows. 

“That’s refreshing. Thank you, darling. Where did 
you go this afternoon? I hope you had a pleasant 
walk.” 

“I never moved off the terrace,” Joceline confessed. “I 
was feeling lazy and it was so lovely in the sunshine.” 

“A walk would have done you more good.” Mrs. Ver¬ 
ney scrutinized her. “Did you find any friends to talk 
to?” 

“They were all out.” Joceline bent to refill the little 
teapot. It was true in substance, yet she realized her eva¬ 
sion. “So I took a sun-bath, then came in and got your 
stockings and hankies ready. There they are!” She 
pointed to the little pile beyond her on the chest of 
drawers. 

“I see them. Thank you, my child.” Mrs. Verney put 
out a tiny hand and patted the girl’s arm. “You’re a 
good daughter.” Her voice was caressing. “I never 
could have lived without you through all these lonely 
years. Kiss me, darling.” She raised her face. 

Joceline, her own wistful, responded. Well, she had 
her mother’s love—that was the thought in her heart as 
she pressed the soft cheek with her lips. 

She felt the frail arms tighten round her. 

“My pretty Joceline.” A hand stole up and smoothed 
back the loose hair on her temples. “Ah, that’s more like 
you now.” Mrs. Verney’s eyes approved. “You’ll do it 


YOUTH WINS 


35 

the old way for dinner, to please your mother, won’t you, 
dear?” 

^ She expected immediate acquiescence and frowned when 
Joceline hesitated. 

“But I like it this way,” the girl protested. “It makes 
my head feel lighter, without the weight on the back of 
my neck. I believe it gives me my headaches.” 

“All nerves,” her mother said lightly. “But I shan’t 
insist, though I was thinking that Mile. Carline may not 
be pleased. To be copied, I mean. It will make me feel 
uncomfortable—the French are so quick to notice these 
things.” A grain of malice came into her eyes. “And she 
must be many years your junior. It’s a pretty style—for 
a young girl.” 

“But I’m not so old.” Joceline’s lips tightened. 

She lifted the kettle to fill up the tea-pot. Her hand 
trembled and the jet of water exceeded its aim. 

“Take care!” said Mrs. Verney sharply. “I don’t want 
to have to pay for the polish. The bills are ruinous as it 
is. You can take my cup—I’ve finished—and leave the 
things to wash later.” She lowered herself in the bed. 
“I’m dreadfully tired,” she complained. “All this is very 
bad for my heart. I shall try and get a little sleep.” 

“Shall I read to you?” the girl inquired, for often Mrs. 
Verney found that the soft voice induced slumber. 

“No, I’d sooner be alone.” 

Joceline went out and closed the door. 

When she reached her own quarters, she stood, her 
hands clenched, staring out of the window. Full well 
she understood what had caused the change in her par- 


36 YOUTH WINS 

ent’s manner. Her love of power had received a check. 

“And it will drag on, hour after hour,” she told herself 
wearily. “It isn’t worth it. After all, what does it mat¬ 
ter how I look?” 

Yet her feeling of rebellion persisted. It deepened as, 
across the space before the hotel, she caught sight of a 
man, young and vigorous, approaching the steps with a 
swinging stride. He looked so free and full of life. In 
his hand was a conical white parcel, obviously from the 
florist. A sudden suspicion shot into her mind, half-dread, 
half-amusement. 

“He couldn’t!” she breathed. 

But presently, there came a tap at her door. 

When she opened it, a chasseur stood there, the smallest 
of three, her devoted slave. 

“For you, mademoiselle,” he said proudly. 

“For me? You’re sure?” she asked the boy. 

“But certainly, mademoiselle.” He gave her an ad¬ 
miring glance, bowed from the waist and retreated. 

Joceline opened the paper folds. Inside was a bunch 
of carnations, heavy-headed, filled with perfume. As she 
bent her head to enjoy it, she saw the corner of a card. 
Nervously she drew it forth. 

It was plain, but obliquely across it ran a line hastily 
written in pencil: “Have you ever read Walden?” 

No name. That was all. 

Joceline stared down bewildered. This stranger, to 
send her flowers? He must be mad! Then she recalled 
that, in all the American novels she knew, flowers were an 
every-day occurrence. The young man always sent a 
bouquet to the girl he had met in the train at the mercy 


YOUTH WINS 


37 

of a villain, or saved from a gang of crooks! And al¬ 
ways the same—“American Beauties!” 

“I suppose he couldn’t get them at Bagnoles,” she 
thought, with a tilt of her lips. “He’d be hurt to death 
if I refused them. But I seem to be getting deeper and 
deeper. And what does he mean by ‘Walden’?” 

Suddenly the light broke in. Walden—the woods! 
Their walk together? Clever! Her eyes sparkled. 

Why not? She was getting old, as her mother plainly 
hinted. Already in the eyes of the French, she had 
“coiffed St. Catherine.” But age had its privileges—so 
her rebellious thoughts ran on. No longer a girl, she 
could do as she liked. In any case, she must thank him, 
and this was difficult to accomplish under her mother’s 
watchful eyes. On the terrace then, at 8.00 to-morrow? 
She did not realize that Trench had followed the same 
line of thought. 

She arranged the flowers on the mantelpiece, lingering 
happily over the task. How beautiful they were, not the 
stiff, pink ones suggesting paper, but of all colours, with 
curled petals, regal on their long stalks. 

“And I don’t believe he’s rich,” she thought. “Some¬ 
how, he doesn’t look it. It is kind.” Her heart was 
touched. 

Nevertheless, a sense of deceit vis-a-vis to her mother 
troubled her and she sought for atonement. Once more 
she took down her hair, brushed it back from her face, 
and secured it in the heavy knot above the nape of her 
neck. 

“Plain Jane, aping Greece,” she summed up the effect 
and sighed. Then wondered at her new reluctance. 


YOUTH WINS 


38 

Why should she mind? What had happened to ruffle 
the stagnant current in which she had drifted these many 
years? 

Suddenly Trench’s words re-echoed in her ears: “You 
should think of yourself more.” Another memory awoke, 
from under the shadow of the War, a doctor’s trenchant 
remark, “Anything to take your daughter out of herself. 
Keep her well employed,” and Mrs. Verney’s eager ap¬ 
proval. A month later fflise had gone and Joceline had 
assumed her duties, already coached by the clever maid. 

The two verdicts were conflicting. Which was the right 
one? In a flash the girl realized her complete absorption 
in the life of her parent. The price of it had been her 
youth. Yet the whole truth was still denied her, that 
factor which had forced Trench into the open field against 
the dictates of his pride. 

Joceline straightened the last carnation and her thoughts 
turned to the woods. 

At six, when she entered the opposite room, the old lady 
was placidly sleeping. Joceline bent over her and kissed 
the delicate pink cheek. Mrs. Verney stirred and opened 
her eyes, vaguely at first, then into them stole a quick 
touch of triumph as they rested on Joceline’s hair. 

“Well, dear one”—her voice was bright—“I’ve had a 
doze, just a few minutes, and I’m feeling much better. 
That poor Lady Carnedin! So kind, but so shallow, and 
without the slightest sense of humour. But you can see 
that in her clothes! A face like a unicorn and she wears 
a picture hat!” She added with a grain of malice, “I 
think sometimes the Almighty must smile to see what 


YOUTH WINS 


39 

centuries have evolved from his beautiful, bare Eve, and 
her— You’re not listening, Joceline?” 

“I was trying to picture it.” The girl paused in her 
endeavour to collect the scattered tea-things. “A uni¬ 
corn? So she is. Isn’t it time you began to dress? I’ve 
put out your violet silk. Is that right?” 

Mrs. Verney thought for a moment. 

“Yes, I shan’t go out after dinner. I must really get a 
cloak to match it. We’ll play bridge with Eugenie and 
Mme. de Mesnil.” 

Joceline’s heart sank. 

“And the little Carline?” she suggested. 

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Verney got out of bed. “That child 
doesn’t play well enough. Besides, we shall be four 
without her. Now, dear, ring for the hot water.” She 
slipped her feet into the pair of satin mules and pattered 
across to the dressing-table. Joceline, in the mirror, 
could see her raising the skin delicately at either side of 
her eyes with her finger-tips, smoothing out the faint 
lines. “These curls are full of dust. That’s the worst of 
motoring! You can get out my second set, and give me 
my face-cream too. It’s locked in my dressing-case—I 
don’t fancy the chambermaid’s fingers! Thanks.” She 
took it and smiled at her daughter. “I’m glad you’ve fol¬ 
lowed my advice. Classical—that’s your style. Not like 
your poor old mother who needs so much, in the way of 
dress and soft effects, to make herself presentable.” 

She paused. This time Joceline was ready. 

“How absurd! Why, you know how every one admires 
you here.” 

“Silly child!” The old lady was pleased. “Still, you 


40 


YOUTH WINS 


get your features from your father. Your hair too—” 
She broke off frowning. “Where is my brilliantine?” 

“Oh, Fm so sorry.” Joceline looked guilty. “I bor¬ 
rowed it this afternoon. I only took very little. I’ll 
fetch it.” 

“Well, I’ll forgive you this time”—Mrs. Verney sounded 
aggrieved—“but you should get some of your own.” 

“I’ve no money,” Joceline murmured. 

“That’s an empty excuse,” her mother told her. “You 
know that I buy you all you want.” 

The girl’s hand closed sharply on the tree which she 
was extracting from a violet satin shoe with a beautiful 
paste buckle. She looked up, her face a mask, when the 
chambermaid tapped at the door. 

“Take it from her,” said Mrs. Verney. “I don’t want 
her in now.” 

Joceline retrieved the can of hot water and placed it on 
the washing-stand. 

“Is there anything more I can do, mother?” 

She stood, tall and rather rigid, watching Mrs. Verney 
remove the dust of her drive with the perfumed cream on 
a little square of fine linen. At last it was over. Her 
mother turned. 

“Do? No, thank you, darling. Go and make yourself 
pretty now. Not that brown dress—the pale rose one. 
It will tone with my violet.” She smiled up into the other’s 
still face, her head a little on one side. “I’ve been think¬ 
ing, child, that you ought to have something new yourself. 
To-morrow, if I’m well enough, we’ll stroll down to that 
little shop where they often have such charming models. 


YOUTH WINS 


4i 


You’re slim and we’re sure to find something to fit you. 
You’d like that?” Her manner was gracious. 

Joceline managed to smile, although the thoughts in 
her heart were bitter. 

“I don’t need it, mother dear. And you have so many 
expenses here.” 

“Then we’ll be reckless for oncel” Mrs. Verney 
nodded gaily. “You know how I love to spoil you. Now 
run away or you’ll be late in coming back to do my hair.” 

Late they were, but it was not Joceline’s fault. As 
they stood waiting for the lift, Mrs. Verney’s sharp eyes, 
watching its downward flight, detected a solitary passen¬ 
ger. The gates flew open and Trench could be seen, 
flattening himself against the side to let the pair pass 
him. They settled themselves on the seat, Joceline with 
her shoulder turned to the other occupant. Her heart 
was beating quickly and she felt a curious shame. But 
Trench never looked at her. 

When they reached the hall, he dawdled behind. Out¬ 
side the dining-room door Joceline fell back a pace, mak¬ 
ing way for*her parent. As Mrs. Verney moved forward, 
the girl looked swiftly over her shoulder. She gave 
Trench a little nod, in which he read shy gratitude. 

The young man breathed a sigh of relief. 

Later, as he sat at his table chatting with Mrs. Bicker- 
steth, he saw the blue eyes steal across and swerve quickly 
to his neighbour. 

For Mrs. Verney had caught the glance. 

“Isn’t that some one new?” she asked and scrutinized 
the elderly lady. 


42 


YOUTH WINS 


“She was here last night,” Joceline responded. “Be¬ 
sides, don’t you remember the ring?” 

“Of course,” Mrs. Verney nodded. “Somehow I 
couldn’t place her. My dear, do look at that comb! 
Exactly like a five-barred gate at the end of a field of 
turnips!” She gave her soft, tinkling laugh. “Still, she 
holds herself well. But I wonder what she can see in 
that rather common young man who tried to talk to us 
in the train.” 

Now her eyes were on Joceline’s face. The girl looked 
up indifferently. 

“He didn’t strike me as common.” 

“With that accent?” Mrs. Verney stared. “I suppose 
in these days, since the War,” she said after a short pause, 
“when there’s such a dearth of young men, girls are not so 
particular. A pity.” Her words were edged. “They risk 
being—misunderstood.” 

A sudden wave of rebellion swept over Joceline. It 
was several years since her mother had talked to her in 
this fashion and it brought back tense memories. A new 
strength seemed to come to her and she lifted her head 
proudly. 

“Then it must be a consolation to you that I’m no 
longer a girl,” she responded. Her voice was not bitter, 
merely amused. “Now, mother, a little more wine?” 

She raised the bottle as she spoke. To her annoyance, 
her hand shook. It did not escape the sharp eyes, dark¬ 
ened by a touch of anger. 

“Those nerves of yours!” Mrs. Verney murmured. 
“You should learn to control them. Your own fault. 
You sit about doing nothing, instead of taking exercise.” 


YOUTH WINS 


43 


To her surprise, Joceline smiled. 

“Well, to-morrow I’ll mend my ways and go for a walk 
early, whilst you’re busy with your bath.” 

“That’s my good daughter,” said Mrs. Verney. Joce¬ 
line waited, for there was thought in that smooth brow 
between its rolls of snowy hair. She felt a little thrill of 
fear. Had her mother divined the whole project, read in 
her mind the word, Walden? She experienced distinct re¬ 
lief when the latter added pensively, “You can take that 
note to the Villa des Fleurs—I shan’t put a stamp on it— 
and if they’re in wait for an answer.” 


CHAPTER III 


M RS. BICKERSTETH, booted and spurred, was 
ready for her first bath. 

It had been an effort, rising so early, but now 
she was dressed, down to her gloves, her hat pinned firmly 
on her head—she had never achieved the modern custom 
of putting her head into her hat—and was giving Piper 
last instructions. For the old nurse had insisted on being 
“handy” when her mistress emerged from the ordeal. 

“You’ll see me in the Pump Room, ma’am, with one of 
the picnic-hamper glasses. The ones they use don’t look 
clean to me. Now, ma’am! It’s time for the hotel bus.” 

They found it waiting at the door and Mrs. Bickersteth 
clambered in. There was only one occupant, in a volum¬ 
inous duffle cloak with a hood that screened the wearer’s 
face, the costume suggesting an Arab’s burnous. Mrs. 
Bickersteth, subsiding, was aware of bright eyes survey¬ 
ing her from under the disguising folds, and the suggestion 
of snowy curls. She recognized Mrs. Verney. 

The day before, she had been too harassed by her new 
doctor’s visit—quite a young man, though stout and 
bearded, so different from her “dear old Spalding”—and 
the details of her treatment, to carry out her original 
project. Here was the opportunity. 

She leaned forward, with a smile. 

“Mrs. Verney, isn’t it? I don’t expect you remember 

44 


YOUTH WINS 


45 

me,” she said in her slow pleasant voice, “but we met many 
years ago.” She added vaguely, “Down in Norfolk.” 

“Indeed?” The old lady sounded frigid. 

Mrs. Bickersteth, secure in her position as mistress of 
Torlish Manor and secretly amused, persisted. 

“I was staying with the Pulteneys—they’re connections 
of ours—at Sinnington and you came to a tennis-party.” 

“The Pulteneys?” Mrs. Verney unthawed. “Really? 
How strange! Do tell me your name?” Mrs. Bicker¬ 
steth pronounced it. “But of course. How stupid of me! 
My memory is not what it was. Still, that must have been 
before—” She paused. 

Mrs. Bickersteth nodded. 

“In 1913, my last visit. Somehow, during the War 
one lost touch with distant friends. It’s a long journey 
from Devonshire. And I never want to leave home,” she 
added comfortably. “It really was quite a wrench to come 
here for the cure, but every one said I must, after a bad 
attack of phlebitis.” 

A Frenchman languidly mounted the step, a muffler 
about his unshaven chin. Under his travelling coat, Mrs. 
Bickersteth caught a glimpse of pink flannel. Pyjamas? 
She was horrified. 

“Well, I think you’re wise,” Mrs. Verney responded. 
“The treatment is wonderful. I’ve been here now three 
seasons running, for my heart,” she explained. “And it 
always sets me up. We came on from Mentone, where 
we usually spend the cold months, so I haven’t seen our 
neighbours lately. Sinnington is five miles from us, on 
the other side of the Scropes’ place, now, alas, in strange 
hands!” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I suppose 


46 YOUTH WINS 

you heard of Sir Roland’s death? Sad, but the War left 
many gaps.” 

“Indeed, yes.” Mrs. Bickersteth sighed. “I remember 
him.” She hesitated, then yielded to curiosity. “It must 
have been a great shock to your daughter?” 

“In a sense. Of course they were childhood friends.” 
She saw Mrs. Bickersteth’s air of surprise. “Ah, you 
didn’t hear? The engagement was broken off, a year be¬ 
fore poor Roland was killed. I was thankful afterwards. 
It would have been worse if they had married. Still, my 
dear daughter suffered. She had not got over her father’s 
death and my own serious illness. But don’t let’s go back 
to those sad times.” Effectively she evaded Mrs. Bicker¬ 
steth’s ready sympathy. “You like Bagnoles and our 
hotel?” she asked in a brisker voice. 

“I think so—though I dread the cure,” Mrs. Bicker¬ 
steth confessed with a smile at her own cowardice. “The 
French doctors seem so ruthless! Ah, we’re off at last.” 
For the omnibus had begun to move. “I wonder if you 
would help me? My doctor said that he would see me 
this morning at the Establishment, but I don’t know if I 
ought to find him bejore I take my treatment or after?” 

“Neither.” Mrs. Verney smiled. “He’ll come and see 
you in your bath.” 

“In my bath!” Mrs. Bickersteth gasped. “You can’t 
mean—” Words failed her. 

Mrs. Verney repressed a desire to laugh. 

“It’s the custom. They think nothing of it.” 

“But 1 should!” The scandalized victim felt inclined 
to jump out of the bus. Whatever would Piper say? 

She became aware suddenly of the Frenchman, observ- 


YOUTH WINS 


47 

ing her with a twinkle in his eye. How dreadful! He 
understood English. She recovered her dignity. 

“PH tell you what to do.” Mrs. Verney whispered 
soothingly. “A little French friend of mine advised me 
when I first came here. Get a box of powdered starch 
and scatter a handful in the water. It makes it opaque 
—so much nicer. I’ll lend you some of mine to-day, as 
soon as we get there. Then you’ll be quite happy.” 

“How kind of you.” Mrs. Bickersteth tried to feel re¬ 
assured. “It’s such a business, isn’t it?” She was pur¬ 
suing her train of thought. “All this dressing and un¬ 
dressing.” 

“But you shouldn’t trouble. The French are more 
sensible. I had this made especially”—she fingered the 
creamy duffle—“but any warm coat will do. Then you’re 
ready to lie down when you return, and you get up prop¬ 
erly for lunch.” 

“I see.” Mrs. Bickersteth nodded back. “I’m afraid 
it wouldn’t quite suit me, though on you it’s so pictur¬ 
esque.” 

The old lady looked pleased. 

“It’s not easy to dress at my age, but one does what 
one can,” she said airily. “Now, with my daughter, it’s 
different. She can wear anything.” 

“She’s so pretty,” observed her companion. “Although 
she doesn’t look over-strong.” 

Mrs. Verney glanced up sharply. 

“It’s her nerves, poor child. She’s perfectly healthy 
otherwise. And such a good daughter. I can’t tell you 
what’s she been to me since my husband’s death. Have 
you any young people?” she enquired. 


48 


YOUTH WINS 


“Three girls—we lost our son in the war. Two of them 
are married now, but I’ve still got my baby at home. She 
will be twenty in August.” She seemed to read the other’s 
thought. “All the same, I hope she’ll marry. I’d like to 
feel that when we’re gone she’d be spared the loneli¬ 
ness—” She broke off, aware, too late, that this would be 
Miss Verney’s portion. “Though nowadays,” she 
amended, “girls seem to find plenty to do.” 

Mrs. Verney smiled back. 

“The new generation is rather amazing. I sometimes 
think we’re very old-fashioned, my daughter and I. Joce- 
line is entirely happy in her quiet life with me and our 
wanderings in the sunshine. We have so many tastes in 
common.” 

The omnibus slowed down to enter the gates of the 
Thermal Establishment. On their right was another big 
hotel that overshadowed the laid-out gardens, through 
which ran a shallow stream, and, facing them ; were wooded 
heights traversed by shady paths with seats at intervals, 
where the patients took their exercise, in accordance with 
their regime. 

“Here we are,” said Mrs. Verney. 

She got out, helped by the porter, and waited for Mrs. 
Bickersteth. 

“You will find the baths very pleasant,” she said. “The 
water has no smell and it only makes your skin tingle. I 
quite enjoy them. Now come with me and I’ll give you 
the powder.” She added, with real sympathy, “You’ll 
soon get accustomed to your doctor, though it’s rather 
like going to school again!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth was surprised. She had not imagined 


YOUTH WINS 


49 


that Mrs. Verney could be so kind and considerate. She 
succumbed to the other’s charm. When they parted, to 
enter the little rooms assigned to them, the younger 
woman felt that she had gained a friend. No wonder the 
daughter was devoted. Under that rather frivolous man¬ 
ner, her mother hid a generous heart. 

“All the same,” she thought later, as she lay in the warm 
water, clouded and milky with the chalk, an ear strained 
for the doctor’s step, “youth needs youth to be perfectly 
happy and I like that young man.” 

She stiffened. There came a sharp tap at the door. 

“Entrez!” said Mrs. Bickersteth weakly. 

Freed from the dread of the unknown—she had kept 
the whole truth from Piper—after a sunny afternoon spent 
mainly on the terrace, Mrs. Bickersteth enjoyed her din¬ 
ner and gossiped unceasingly with Trench. His place had 
been vacant at lunch, as he had gone off on a long tramp, 
returning by Couterne. He drew a picture for her of the 
chateau, turreted and imposing, with its walls lapped by 
the water, where, in the sixteenth century, Margaret of 
Navarre’s pet poet had poured out his heart to her. 

“You must go there,” he said. “It’s worth seeing and 
it’s only a short walk from the Baths. How did you get 
on to-day?” 

“Very well.” A warmer colour tinged Mrs. Bicker- 
steth’s plump cheeks and she turned the conversation. 
“I’ve been talking to the Verneys. What a charming old 
lady she is! She introduced her daughter to me after tea, 
but I found her more difficult to get on with. Very quiet.” 

The young man nodded. 


50 


YOUTH WINS 


“To-night,” said Mrs. Bickersteth, “if you’ll keep a 
chair for me outside, I think I’ll have my coffee there. 
It’s quite like summer, isn’t it?” 

Trench willingly agreed. He glanced at the central 
table. The Verneys were rising. He watched them de¬ 
part, then stood up in his turn. 

“You’ll find me at your end of the terrace—trying to 
sit in two chairs at once!” he told his new friend boyishly. 

He seemed in very good spirits to-night. Mrs. Bicker¬ 
steth finished her ice and prepared to follow him. 

In the air was a suggestion of thunder; and clouds were 
gathering over the woods, deepening the effect of the dusk. 
She joined in the throng moving towards the terrace door. 
In an angle of the lounge, Mrs. Verney had settled down 
to bridge, Joceline’s place filled by a stranger, one of those 
formidable old dames, so often to be found in France, 
who seem, with the passing of the years, to shed their 
feminity and become more masculine than their grand¬ 
sons. The girl was nowhere to be seen, but when Mrs. 
Bickersteth stepped out on to the red tiles she found her 
by the parapet, gazing silently over the lake. 

“All alone?” The elderly lady halted by her side. 
“Come and have coffee with me to-night?” She slipped 
a hand through Joceline’s arm. “I’m not up to walking 
yet, so we’ll sit down and have a chat.” 

Avoiding the promenaders, they made their way to 
the far corner, where Trench was guarding a table and 
chairs. 

He rose eagerly at their approach, darting a swift glance 
at the girl. 

Mrs. Bickersteth, beaming, introduced him. 


YOUTH WINS 


5i 

“Pleased to meet you/’ said Trench gravely. “Won’t 
you take this chair, Miss Verney?” 

“But it’s yours.” Joceline repressed a smile, meeting 
the mischief in his eyes. 

“I’d sooner stand,” he insisted, and the two ladies set¬ 
tled themselves. 

“Now, isn’t this nice?” Mrs. Bickersteth was elated 
by the success of her scheme. “I can’t understand how 
any one can stay indoors on a night like this.” 

“And play bridge,” Joceline observed. “I was so 
thankful to see our champion arrive this afternoon. Now 
the table’s complete without me. She was here last year 
and we heard of her prowess beforehand, but we didn’t 
realize her sex. We put her down as an old soldier—in¬ 
stead of his widow! When we were introduced to ‘Ma¬ 
dame la generate,’ as they call her, it was a trying mo¬ 
ment! You can guess how we laughed afterwards. Es¬ 
pecially as she’s so—so virile!” 

“Even to a moustache,” chuckled Trench. “I was won¬ 
dering who she could be. She barked at me in the lounge 
when I got in her way: *Eh bien, monsieur?’ ” He mim¬ 
icked her. “I very nearly forgot and saluted!” 

“ ‘The General’ would have liked that. I believe the 
only person here who is not afraid of her is my mother. 
But she plays an excellent game of bridge.” 

“You’re not fond of it yourself?” the elderly lady sug¬ 
gested, as the waiter threaded his way to them, the coffee- 
tray balanced on one hand. 

“Not in France,” said the girl. “They’re so terribly in 
earnest! It seems to arouse the national economy, and 
they hate to lose, which makes me nervous.” 


52 


YOUTH WINS 


“I expect you’d sooner play tennis?” Mrs. Bickersteth 
was pursuing her plan. She was surprised by the silence 
that fell on the pair. “I wonder if there are nightingales 
here?” She filled up the coffee cups. 

“Yes, in the forest,” Trench answered. “I heard one 
there the other night.” He was getting accustomed to 
his neighbour’s swift transitions, but he did not guess that 
this change of subject was due to her romantic thoughts. 

“We must go and find them one evening,” she said, 
“when I’m allowed exercise.” 

A fugitive breeze stirred the bushes, wafting the scent 
of syringa to them. The darkness deepened, veiling the 
hills. The lake was pale indigo, under a sky packed with 
clouds, and Joceline looked up at them. 

“We shall have a storm before morning.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth nodded. 

“I’m afraid so, though it’s turning cooler.” She laid 
down her empty cup. “I really think I must get a wrap.” 

“I’ll fetch it.” Trench moved. “Please? Just tell me 
where to find it?” 

“You’re very kind”—Mrs. Bickersteth rose—“but I 
want to go in. There’s something I forgot to tell Piper. 
Perhaps you’d keep my chair for me? I shan’t be long.” 
She smiled at the two young people. “I’ll come back, so 
don’t desert me.” 

Off she went, sailing along like a battle-ship, her head 
high, with its frizzy, grey hair subdued by a net, jet comb 
erect, suggesting the turreted superstructure. She was 
well-pleased with her manoeuvre. 

“They’ll get along better alone,” she thought. “That’s 


YOUTH WINS 


53 

a dear boy—he deserves it. And the girl is brighter with¬ 
out her mother.” 

She found Piper in her room, threading pink ribbon in 
a nightdress. 

“You needn’t go,” she told the maid. “I’ve only come 
in for a few minutes. I’ve been talking to Miss Verney 
and that nice young man at the next table.” 

Piper looked up quickly. 

“With the brown hair?” 

Mrs. Bickersteth nodded. 

“Ah, you’ve noticed it too?” Piper’s gaze was averted 
—too late. “Now, Nanna, I won’t have it.” Her mis¬ 
tress’ hand came down tenderly on her shoulder. “It’s no 
good grieving. Our darling’s gone, but there are the living 
who still need us.” She started. “There! I’ve forgotten 
to write to Miss Adela”—she had slipped back to nursery 
terms—“to say that I’ve survived my bath! I could do 
it now, just a line.” She glanced across to the open win¬ 
dows. “But first, Piper”—her voice was mysterious— 
“just step out quietly and tell me how they’re getting on?” 

Piper needed no explanation. Match-making again, she 
thought! Well, it would take her mind off the cure—and 
other painful matters. For Piper had had a shock that 
morning. Wandering down a corridor, she had seen a 
man emerge from a room, holding the door half-open, and 
bow to a lady in her bath! And the lady had airily waved 
her hand. Such goings-on and no one minding! A nurse 
had passed at the very moment. Still, Piper had always 
heard that the French were an immoral race. She had 
tried to forget it during the War. 


54 


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“Well?” Mrs. Bickersteth was curious when the old 
maid came in out of the dark. 

“It’s not easy to see, ma’am, but if it’s the two in 
the corner they’ve got their chairs side by side and the 
young gentleman is talking.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth nodded, satisfied. 

She would have been immensely surprised had she over¬ 
heard the conversation. For Trench was saying to the 
girl: 

“I was afraid you might be tired. It was rather an up¬ 
hill climb, not at all the walk I’d planned. But then, 
there was that note to leave. To-morrow we’ll go into the 
woods on the way to La Ferte-Mace. The real woods.” 

Joceline smiled. 

“Walden?” For already this had become one of the 
catchwords dear to youth. “I didn’t say I would go to¬ 
morrow.” 

“But you will?” His voice was pleading. “I’ll show 
you a perfectly lovely path that leads to a grass cutting 
where all sorts of flowers grow. Besides”—in the dim 
light, she saw the white line of his teeth, as he laughed 
quietly—“that was our bargain, wasn’t it? When I’d 
been ‘properly’ introduced!” 

The girl stirred uneasily, evading a direct reply. 

“How could you say you were ‘pleased to meet’ me?” 

“It was the honest truth. I’m always pleased to meet 
you, and that made the fifth time. In a certain sense.” 
He was thinking backwards. “First”—he touched his 
thumb, counting—“on the boat, coming over. Then—” 

She interrupted him, surprised. 


YOUTH WINS 


55 

“On the boat? I remember you in the Calais train, 
when you got down the roll of rugs for my mother.” 

“And was frozen stiff,” he interposed. 

“Were you?” she asked innocently. “But it wasn’t as 
cold as all that.” 

“I mean by the way your mother said, c Thank you.’ 
As if she were handing me a pourboire! And you wouldn’t 
even look at me.” 

“Well, in England, you see—” 

He caught her up. 

“But I’m English too. Did you think I wasn’t?” He 
laughed at the quick movement which betrayed her mis¬ 
take. 

“I thought you were Californian?” 

“I only live there and share in a ranch. I’m British- 
born—Rugby, Cambridge and the War from start to 
finish. Then two years in my father’s office, learning to 
be a solicitor. On his death, I got my chance—though I 
don’t mean that exactly. The old man was very good to 
me, gave in about my going to Cambridge, and, again, 
when I threw it up and enlisted. So I’m glad now that 
I stuck it, instead of cutting adrift at once. But I simply 
loathed the law and being tied to an office stool.” His 
voice quickened. “Now I’m free. There’s nothing on 
earth to beat freedom.” 

In the silence, he heard distinctly the little catch of 
her breath as she checked a sigh. The slim hand on the 
arm of her chair had tightened convulsively. But when 
she spoke her voice was quiet. 

“Yes, I think a man ought to be free.” 


56 


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“A woman too. I don’t believe—oh, well it’s difficult to 
explain.” He was skating on thin ice, and he knew it. 
Her very stillness was a warning. He started again. u I’ve 
always thought that the Ten Commandments could have 
done with another. If we’ve got to honour our parents, 
why shouldn’t they respect us, in turn? As individuals, 
and not as possessions. Seems to me too one-sided. 
Mind you, in America they give youth a freer hand. At 
least that’s been my conclusion, judging from the men 
I’ve met.” 

“Perhaps.” Her hands were folded now tranquilly in 
her lap. 

There followed a little silence. His eyes, accustomed 
to the darkness, studied her profile. Head averted, she 
stared at the mist obscuring the lake. How loyal she 
was! He loved her for it, yet it raised a barrier between 
them. 

“You don’t agree,” he asked at last. “I mean with my 
Eleventh Commandment?” 

“In theory, yes. But it isn’t so simple. Men are free 
because they’ve been taught how to work and become 
financially independent, whereas most women are sup¬ 
ported. They can’t choose their own lives—though in the 
War some got a chance.” 

“Did you do any war-work?” he asked. 

She stiffened. 

“I couldn’t at first. My father died, and my mother 
was ill and needed me. Then I had a breakdown myself. 
Later I tried, but it proved a failure.” 

“Hard luck,” Trench murmured. “I suppose you 
weren’t strong enough?” 


YOUTH WINS 


57' 

There was such a ring of sympathy in his lowered voice 
that she turned to glance at him, surprised. 

“Oh, no. I’m not delicate. It was a stupid accident. 
I joined a party of haymakers—girls. We went round to 
help the farmers when all the men were being called up. 
I loved it, the happy life in the open, until I managed to 
strain a sinew and went dead-lame, no use at all! So 
then I had to go home.” 

It seemed to him that she stopped abruptly. His intui¬ 
tion filled the gap. Mrs. Verney had disapproved of the 
plan and had triumphed over its non-success. 

“And every one said T told you so’?” He nodded com¬ 
prehensively. “That’s the limit, isn’t it?” 

“Well, it put a check to anything further, except the old 
village committees.” 

Her lips were tight. Once again the distant scene rose 
before her of that ignominious journey home, the coldness 
of her mother’s welcome and the long weeks of punish¬ 
ment. She had gone off, against her parent’s will—the un¬ 
forgivable offence—and the net had closed tighter than 
ever, even her slender allowance docked. Since then she 
had been obliged to beg for the small change in her purse„ 
utterly in the tyrant’s power. But no one had ever known l 
This was the salve to her pride. Only Trench had guessed 
a part. This hurt her, yet the man was a stranger, would 
go out of her life, and she was lonely. His sympathy' 
and understanding broke the monotony of her days. 

The terrace now was deserted. Through the glass door 
of the lounge, a little circle of warm light fell on the tiled 
pavement, rendering the darkness still more opaque. The 
garden below seemed mysterious. Not a leaf moved in 


YOUTH WINS 


rs'8 

the sultry air. Beyond the lake a black curtain had 
fallen, obscuring the pastoral scene. Suddenly this was 
ripped across by the dagger thrust of the lightning. Joce- 
line started as the thunder came galloping over the range 
of hills. 

In the tense silence that followed it, a voice hailed them 
from above. Mrs. Bickersteth was standing in her opera- 
box. 

“I’m so sorry, but I was kept,” she told them breath¬ 
lessly. “I forgot a letter and had to write it. And now 
it’s no use my joining you. We’re going to have a dread¬ 
ful storm. You’d better come in at once,” she fussed. 
“There’s the rain!” For a heavy drop had splashed 
down on her hand. “Come in! Good night.” She was 
retreating. 

“Good night,” they echoed, and heard the snap of the 
shutters closing. 

“I’d forgotten her,” Trench confessed. But the girl 
had already risen and was moving forward hastily. “Look 
out!” She had narrowly missed a table. “You’ll hurt 
yourself.” His hand felt for her elbow and grasped it. 
“This side. There’s no hurry. That storm is miles away.” 

“But it’s late,” she breathed, as he guided her through 
the open space near the parapet. “I’d forgotten the time.” 

Trench smiled. Then he frowned. She seemed to live 
under a perpetual shadow of reproof. Still he mustn’t get 
her into trouble. When they came to the circle of light, 
he halted. 

“I think I’ll stay here and watch the lightning until it 
really begins to rain,” he told her, and felt her tension 
slacken. 


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59 


“Good night then.” She held out her hand. 

As his long fingers closed on it, a flash of lightning lit 
up the terrace and she caught a swift vision of his face. 
She slipped from him like a ghost before he had time to 
open the door. 

Once inside, she paused for a second, dazzled by the 
sudden brilliance, and gave an anxious glance around her. 
Her mother was absorbed in bridge, shrewdly appraising 
the cards she held. Joceline made her way to the lift. 
Soon she was safe in her own room. Unconsciously she 
moved to the glass and stared, breathless, into it. 

She saw a white face, under the dead-gold hair, stirred 
by the night air into a halo, the blue eyes wide with fear. 

“Oh, not again!” she cried in her heart. “I couldn’t 
bear it. It would kill me.” 

Outside the window voices rose in shrill and excited 
French; a party, returning from the Casino, hurrying be¬ 
fore the rain. Then silence, broken by the thunder. 

Gradually her composure returned and brought with it 
a sense of proportion. It might have been imagination, 
that look in the man’s honest grey eyes? 

“Still, after this I shall have to know him, or Mrs. 
Bickersteth would wonder.” She took up a brush and 
smoothed the hair back from her troubled brows. “Then 
the trouble will begin. I’ve had my warning from mother 
already.” 

The blue eyes stared back at her, filled with a new re¬ 
bellion. Was she always to be cut off from the younger 
generation? Trench had been right when he said that 
parents should respect their children. What was the se¬ 
cret of the power her mother held in her tiny hands? 


6o 


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Money! 

“And I have been cheated out of mine/’ the girl 
thought. “Sold, like a slave!” 

She turned away with a brusque gesture, and her eyes 
fell on the mantelpiece; on a single photograph, its frame 
touching the carnations. Her father’s face looked out at 
her and, suddenly, she remembered her vow. Her lips 
trembled and into her eyes stole tears that seemed to 
wash away the everlasting bitterness. Anyhow, she was 
true to the dead. She thought of her father’s last letter 
announcing his forthcoming leave, unaware of the fate in 
store: “If I can’t get off, look after your mother. Re¬ 
member, I trust her to you, child.” 

She straightened her drooping shoulders and her face 
took on a new expression, nobler, filled with a faint tri¬ 
umph. It wasn’t slavery, after all, but the test of her 
loyalty. 

She bathed her face in cold water, went across to her 
mother’s room and saw that everything was in order. 
Fetching a book, she ran downstairs and slipped into a 
vacant chair, opened the pages and tried to read. Once 
she looked up. Trench had entered, raindrops sparkling 
on his hair. As he passed her, he gave her a tiny nod, 
almost imperceptible, full of a boyish friendliness. A 
weight lifted from her spirit. 

Presently the bridge-party dissolved; Mrs. Verney, 
radiant, began to bid her friends good night. “The Gen¬ 
eral” stalked across the lounge, gaunt in her rusty widow’s 
weeds, to collect a subdued daughter-in-law, who obedi¬ 
ently folded her embroidery. 

Immediately the remaining trio fell into closer conver- 


YOUTH WINS 


61 


sation. As Joceline drew near, she could hear the Com- 
tesse de St. Mesnil say: “The poor little one! I pity her. 
All these cures without result, and she has been married 
five years! Who knows, it may be the husband’s fault? 
Though our old friend would not agree. She has every 
confidence in the waters. Let us hope, then! Bon soir, 
madame” They shook hands, and Mrs. Verney looked 
round for her daughter. 

“Ah, there you are, my dear.” She accepted Joceline’s 
arm and they moved out of earshot. “I won all three 
rubbers,” she whispered. “Thirty francs—think of that! 
I had ‘the General’ throughout for my partner.” 

“And now you’re tired?” 

“Not a bit!” The old lady swept into the lift. She 
opened her dainty brocade bag, sorted the soiled notes 
and picked out one for ten francs. “Here’s a little present, 
darling. I always like to share my good fortune.” 

For a moment, Joceline hesitated. Then she mur¬ 
mured a word of thanks. 

“Don’t lose it,” said Mrs. Verney, smiling. “To-mor¬ 
row, when you go for the cakes, you must buy yourself 
some brilliantine.” 


CHAPTER IV 


M RS. BICKERSTETH, returning from a drive, 
recommended by the hall-porter, to the ancient 
Chapel of St. Ortaire, sighed as they entered the 
shady woods. She was troubled in spirit by the news 
which had reached her by post that morning. 

It was only ten days since she had left Torlish Manor, 
hut Elsie had “got round her father”—so she phrased it 
indignantly. And where pray, was the money to come 
from for this new, ridiculous scheme? All surplus income 
was absorbed in rates and repairs nowadays. These were 
cruel times for landowners. 

Elsie, too, who had seemed so happy since her emer¬ 
gence from the schoolroom, to write about “an object in 
life,” when of course she would marry—quite as pretty as 
Adela, who had been a mother herself at twenty. Absurd! 
Mrs. Bickersteth straightened her shoulders and blamed 
the “modern restlessness.” 

Three years at an Agricultural College and then to take 
over Platt’s Farm, when the lease would expire, and run 
it herself, as a “paying proposition”? A child like that! 
The idea of a Bickersteth selling poultry and eggs and 
butter; driving in on market days and standing behind a 
stall in an apron? (This was her own flight of fancy.) 
What was the world coming to? 

But Richard had always been weak with the child, since 

62 


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63 

the days of her first pony. She could ride, certainly, and 
she had an inborn love of the land, the only one of the 
four who kept her garden in proper order and whose rab¬ 
bits never seemed to die. 

“I must be just,” thought her parent. “I’m really more 
vexed with Richard, who leaves 4 the final decision’ to me. 
So that, if I say no, I shall get all the black looks and 
Richard will go scot free! Isn’t that a man all over?” 

Suddenly she remembered that her doctor had told her 
she must walk for a certain distance every day; drive, if 
she liked, but get out in some shady place and begin to 
exercise her leg. 

They had come to a clearing in the trees, where a grass 
ride led off to the right, and she called a halt. 

“Attendez!” she warned the driver, and started off 
courageously. 

What a nuisance this cure was! She ought to be home, 
talking seriously to Richard before the mischief went too 
far. One couldn’t be diplomatic in letters. Elsie would 
“jump to conclusions.” 

On went Mrs. Bickersteth down the path like the neck 
of a bottle, her eyes glued to the ground. Another of 
those huge, red slugs! She avoided it, with a shudder. 
The woods seemed very silent. She felt quite glad that, 
behind her, the driver was still within hail if she should 
meet a local Apache. But suddenly she heard voices, a 
soft murmur that rose and fell, and she paused to get her 
breath. It came through the trees on her left. Mrs. Bick¬ 
ersteth was curious. She forsook the path deliberately 
and, with a feeling of adventure, made her way through 
the undergrowth. 


64 YOUTH WINS 

Now she was within earshot. A man was speaking—in 
English too! 

“Just to please me?” 

She recognized the voice and peered stealthily through 
the low branches screening the pair beyond. There, in a 
little clearing, were the two young people she hoped to 
discover, Joceline on the mossy ground, her shoulders 
against the bole of an ilex, with Trench, cross-legged, 
facing her. 

His hands were stretched out imploringly—Mrs. Bick- 
ersteth gasped! Had it come to this? For she saw the 
girl hesitate, then lay her delicate hands in his. The 
thought flashed through the onlooker’s mind: “In another 
moment they’ll kiss each other! ” Panic-stricken, she re¬ 
treated. It wasn’t fair to spy on the lovers. But what 
a romance? 

She breathed again when, undetected, she reached the 
path. Excitement had driven away her depression. Elsie 
must wait. There was no haste and here were these dear, 
impetuous young people launched on a love affair. Yes, 
it was more than a flirtation. The earnestness of the 
man’s voice and the trust in Joceline’s pale face, even her 
careless attitude as she leaned, bare-headed, against the 
tree, her hat on the ground beside her, spoke of the confi¬ 
dence bred by custom, no silly boy and girl affair. 

Mrs. Bickersteth felt responsible. Her plan had suc¬ 
ceeded beyond her hopes, but she was afraid of Mrs. Ver- 
ney. It was obvious that the old lady did not approve of 
her daughter’s friend, though Mrs. Bickersteth worked 
hard to bring him into the little circle. 

“An absurd prejudice.” She sniffed, her Roman nose 


YOUTH WINS 


65 

in the air, as she trudged back to the carriage. “The girl 
is no longer young and she’s fading. He mayn’t be quite 
her equal in birth, but he’s had a first-class education. 
Good-looking, too”—the face of her dead son rose up and 
strengthened her resolution—“and if they live in Cali¬ 
fornia what does it matter about his people if they’re not 
in the Verneys’ set? But of course the real truth of the 
matter is that the old lady can’t spare her.” And sud¬ 
denly she thought of Elsie, the last fledgling to leave the 
nest. “I suppose all parents are the same. It’s hard to 
do so much for the children and then see them fly away. 
But one must think of the future.” She had come round, 
full circle, to her initial problem. 

Supposing Elsie remained single? She would be happy 
at Dobbs’ Farm, a small one not far from the Manor, 
when the older generation had passed, with Christabel to 
look after her. Really, how fortunate it seemed that she 
had insisted on marrying her second cousin, young Henry 
Bickersteth, in that rather breathless fashion. For Henry 
was now the heir, and Elsie was fond of Christabel. Yes, 
perhaps there was something in the scheme? Wearily she 
mounted the step. 

“Allez!” she said to the driver, to receive disconcert¬ 
ingly his response: 

“To ze ’otel? Bien, madame” 

Off they went, Mrs. Bickersteth leaning back in the 
rickety victoria. A taxi-auto cost more and, since dear 
Adela was helping, she must be careful of expenses. 
Adela had her sons to consider, as well as that darling 
baby. A ray of comfort came to her in the thought of the 
third generation. How the boys loved their summers, the 


66 


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long holidays at Torlish, with Grannie and the indulgent 
Piper. Like many another elderly spinster, she was se¬ 
vere with her own sex, but weak as water with a school¬ 
boy, forgiving all the mad pranks for the sake of a young 
arm tucked through hers and a gay: “Buck up, Nanna!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth smiled at the thought. She must tell 
Piper what she had seen in the heart of the woods. Piper 
would be pleased. She was sorry for “that Miss Verney.” 
She had “heard things” from Lady Carnedin’s maid. 

“No wonder she’s so pale, ma’am,” had been Piper’s 
summing-up. “She has to massage Mrs. Verney! It’s 
taking the strength out of her. A trained nurse once told 
me she gave it up for this reason. It sapped her.” Piper 
had nodded wisely. “And she’d been through a hospital 
and knew what she was talking about.” 

But where was Mrs. Verney now, and how had the 
pair escaped her? Mrs. Bickersteth dimly remembered 
some invitation to bridge at a Villa. That was it! Joce- 
line had taken her parent there and met Trench—by ap¬ 
pointment! Mrs. Bickersteth chuckled, to remember that 
she was a mother herself. Still, she had looked ahead for 
her daughters and given them every chance of marriage. 
That was a parent’s duty, according to her old-fashioned 
creed. Whereas Mrs. Verney seemed almost glad that Sir 
Roland Scrope— She paused, startled, scenting a fresh 
mystery: the reason for that broken engagement. 

“If only she’d confide in me! I know I could help her,” 
she thought, as they passed under the railway bridge. 
“But Joceline’s so reserved. Though she likes me—I can 
feel that. Perhaps”—she smiled—“she will now.” 

When she reached the hotel, a shock was in store. 


YOUTH WINS 


67 

There, in the lounge, was Mrs. Verney, her watchful eyes 
on the door. Mrs. Bickersteth felt absurdly guilty as the 
old lady rose to her feet and advanced, with a martyred 
expression. 

“I suppose you haven’t seen my daughter?” she asked 
plaintively. “I left her here, with a headache, and ad¬ 
vised her to lie down, but she isn’t in her room and they 
can’t find her anywhere. So tiresome, the bridge fell 
through, as the fourth player sent an excuse. So I 
’wouldn’t wait for tea. Now”—she shrugged her frail 
shoulders—“I’ve fallen between two stools! I never drink 
the hotel tea. It tastes exactly like straw.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth had an inspiration. 

“Then come and share mine,” she suggested. “Do? I 
told my maid to have the kettle boiling at four.” 

Mrs. Verney seemed to revive. 

“That’s very kind. I should enjoy it. Shall I come up 
now or later?” 

“Now,” said Mrs. Bickersteth firmly. 

When they reached her room, she managed to intercept 
Piper and whisper instructions. Piper looked grave. Mrs. 
Verney was placed in a chair turned from the windows. 
For the young people, unsuspecting, might wander out on 
the terrace. 

“Such a glare to-day,” the hostess explained, pleased 
with her diplomacy. “Piper will soon have tea ready.” 

The latter had departed to fetch an extra cup and 
saucer. Mrs. Verney, accepting the only cushion, leaned 
back and became gracious. 

“So nice to have a maid. I gave mine up during the 
war—a war economy, in fact. With death duties and 


68 


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taxation, I couldn’t afford the luxury. I had to think of 
Joceline’s future. Yours seems such a good soul.” 

“She was nurse to my children when they were young 
and I simply couldn’t part with her. So now she looks 
after me.” 

“A comfort?” The old lady smiled and nodded. 

She had the great, social gift of adapting herself to her 
company. They drifted into house-management and other 
kindred subjects. Presently, under the magnetism of her 
guest’s facile charm, Mrs. Bickersteth found herself em¬ 
barked on the history of Elsie’s rebellion. 

Mrs. Verney was more than sympathetic. She went a 
trifle too far in her rigorous indictment of the present 
generation. Mrs. Bickersteth, a true Briton, found her¬ 
self unexpectedly upholding the side attacked! Her 
visitor, enjoying her tea, listened and hid her amuse¬ 
ment. 

“Of course you’re the best judge, but I’ve been through 
the same trouble. With Joceline and an attempt at war- 
work. I knew it would be too much for her, after her 
severe breakdown, but only experience teaches the young. 
She came home ill, at the end of a month, glad to be nursed 
by her old mother.” A clock outside struck five and Mrs. 
Verney’s face hardened. “I can’t imagine where she is. 
I only hope”—she hesitated, then finished the broken 
sentence—“that she’s not out with that Mr. Trench.” 

“But would it matter?” Mrs. Bickersteth saw her 
chance. “He seems such a nice fellow. I’ve taken quite 
a fancy to him.” 

“So I’ve observed.” Mrs. Verney smiled. “I thought 
it so kind of you.” 


YOUTH WINS 69 

There was no mistaking her intention, nor the faint 
curl of her nostrils. 

Mrs. Bickersteth’s head went up. 

“But he has been kind too,” she remarked, very much 
the mistress of Torlish Manor. “Attentive and consid¬ 
erate. I like to find respect in young people and I think 
one has a certain duty towards one’s countrymen abroad. 
He has a charming character.” She paused. Mrs. Verney 
had laid a hand, with a winning gesture, on her knee. 

“My dear,” she murmured, “I quite understand. I, 
too, hate snobbishness. But would you ask him to Torlish 
Manor if your girls were at home?” 

Mrs. Bickersteth looked troubled. It had been a 
shrewd thrust. 

“I think so. Why not? You mean, with Elsie?” She 
frowned for a moment. “Yes, I would. He’s a young 
man I could trust.” 

A short silence ensued. Mrs. Verney was considering 
a fresh move in the game, as she nibbled a petit-beurre 
with precaution. 

“False teeth,” thought Mrs. Bickersteth, who was proud 
of those Time had spared her. 

Mrs. Verney, at length, looked up and met the other’s 
honest eyes. 

“You are differently placed,” she suggested. “My poor 
Joceline lost her father at the time when she most needed 
him. A man has a finer sense of proportion. As it was, 
she allowed her trouble to prey upon her until it affected 
her health. I think I will tell you the whole story. I feel 
that it will go no further and it would be a relief to my 
mind. I’m very worried about my child.” 


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There was genuine feeling in her voice, and Mrs. Bick- 
ersteth was touched by the unexpected confidence. 

“Please tell me, if you care to. I’ve noticed that she 
looks pale and too serious for her age. But I put it down 
to Sir Roland’s death.” 

“No.” Mrs. Verney shook her head. “The trouble 
was earlier. When he broke off the engagement.” 

Her listener was startled. 

“He broke it off?” 

“Yes. After two years. A bitter blow to Joceline’s 
pride. Of course this part was kept a secret. I believe”— 
Mrs. Verney smiled faintly—“that a good many people 
thought it was her own act, after her father’s death, that 
she did not want to leave me alone. But the truth was 
that he tired of her. My poor daughter—” Her eyes 
filled. “For that was not the only affair. Later, after 
her long illness, she met a much older man. who seemed 
deeply in love with her. A man she had known as a child. 
There was an understanding between them. He had to 
return for a year to Uganda, where he held an appoint¬ 
ment. They parted, practically engaged, although it was 
not to be announced. I’ve never seen Joceline happier! 
Then he wrote—I read the letter—and told her that he 
had changed his mind. He made the excuse a reduced 
income, but this seemed absurd to me. Joceline, on her 
marriage, would have come in for a thousand a year, 
under her father’s will, and she had told Howard this. 
No, it was the old story. My daughter attracts, but she 
cannot hold. Over and over again I’ve seen it—the spark, 
and the flame that has burnt itself out.” She hunted for 
a handkerchief and pressed it gently to her eyes. 


YOUTH WINS 


7 i 

“But why? I can’t understand it.” Mrs. Bickersteth 
was horrified. “It’s dreadful! And she’s so sweet and 
pretty—unselfish too. Though I’ve noticed this doesn’t 
appeal to young men. Until they’re married; then they 
expect it.” With an effort she collected her thoughts. 
“Perhaps they were the wrong men?” 

Mrs. Verney’s sense of humour was stirred. 

“All of them?” She put the wisp of lawn and tulle 
carefully into her bead bag. “I’m afraid not. The secret 
lies in my daughter’s nature. She loves with the heart and 
the head, but she has not a particle of what the French 
call ‘temperament’ I have slowly come to the conclusion 
that marriage would be a cruel mistake. She would not 
survive the disillusion. She is too”—she hesitated—“fas¬ 
tidious. Men find this out in time. They are chilled and 
like the knight in the story”—her voice fell—“they ride 
away.” 

“But you hardly expect a young girl,” Mrs. Bickersteth 
began, “to be—” She stuck. She had always disliked 
the use of the word “passionate.” 

“No.” Mrs. Verney nodded her head. “But that is 
what leads to marriage.” 

The motherly woman was unconvinced. The argument 
threatened her idol, Romance. She saw too the flaw in it. 
For it was the men who backed out, the girl who was will¬ 
ing, but sacrificed. Besides, nowadays, she thought, girls 
knew “everything.” Something deep down in her, both 
primitive and kindly, had warned her from the start that 
Joceline’s faint bitterness arose from thwarted instincts; 
a lack of love, not a fear of it. She stared out at the sky, 
tinged by the first pale rose of sunset. The placid lake 


YOUTH WINS 


72 

reflected the colour; even the hills seemed to glow. This 
beautiful world, she thought, calling to youth and planned 
by God as a garden for man’s delight—for the greatest 
joy of all. She felt an odd touch of mistrust as the ele¬ 
gant old figure beside her moved her chair and followed 
her companion’s gaze. 

“This was some years ago.” Mrs. Verney took up the 
thread of her story. “Since then I’ve watched over my 
daughter. I have even changed our manner of life. As 
soon as the War ended, I bought a small Villa at Men¬ 
tone where we could entertain our friends, safe from the 
mixed crowd one finds nowadays in the hotels. Joceline 
has a varied life and I try to fill it with interests. Here, 
of course,” she amended, “I have to devote myself to the 
cure. But in Norfolk she has many friends and she 
seems to have quite settled down, though there is little en¬ 
tertaining and, since the War, a dearth of young men. 
It is better so. I believe that Joceline was never destined 
to marry.” Her voice strengthened. “That is why I do 
not encourage the attentions of that rather obtuse young 
man with a farm in California. Can you wonder?” Her 
dark eyes searched Mrs. Bickersteth’s troubled face. 

“No. Still—you will forgive me? What will she do 
when you are gone?” 

“She will have pleasant neighbours, a beautiful home 
and enough money to live”—she smiled—“as I have lived. 
She is happy now, in her quiet fashion, healthy, except for 
occasional nerves, and absorbed in our country pursuits. 
And how many people are happy when married?” 

This was difficult to answer. 

“But if she really fell in love?” 


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73 

Mrs. Bickersteth became aware that the other’s move¬ 
ment now gave her an undisturbed view of the garden. 
Mrs. Verney’s eyes were searching it. 

“I pray to God every night that she may be spared 
such a disaster.” There was a poignant note in her voice. 
“Her nerves would give way utterly under any prolonged 
strain and she is afraid—afraid of— Ah!” She leaned 
forward. Into the face that had been so gentle and de¬ 
spairing leaped a sudden fierce anger. 

Mrs. Bickersteth followed her glance. 

Through the lower gate two figures had passed. As 
they came nearer, she could see Trench talking to Joce- 
line. The rosy light of the sunset seemed to have warmed 
her pale cheeks. She looked both young and vivid. In 
her hand was a ragged bunch of flowers, the spotted 
orchids of the woods, with deep-blue water forget-me-nots 
and the wild yellow pansy, limp as though long since 
gathered. 

When they came to the steps, Joceline paused, laughing, 
and shrugged her shoulders. The gesture said: “Another 
climb!” Immediately the young man’s hand slipped 
under her elbow, to remain there until they stood on the 
terrace. 

Mrs. Verney rose from her chair. 

“Excuse me,” she said. “I must tell Joceline that I’m 
here.” 

With remarkable agility she stepped down onto the 
balcony. Mrs. Bickersteth, anxious, followed. 

“Joceline!” 

Mrs. Verney’s voice reached the girl, as she paused, 
smoothing back a lock of hair that had escaped from 


YOUTH WINS 


74 

under her hat. Startled, she looked up. The happy light 
died out of her face, to be replaced by the shadow of 
fear. 

“Mother! You back?” She sounded breathless. 

Mrs. Bickersteth tried to reduce the affair to its normal 
proportions. 

“Your mother’s been having tea with me. If you’d like 
a cup we can easily make one? For both of you,” she 
added bravely. 

Trench answered for his companion: 

“Thanks, but we’ve just had ours, at Guyot’s. That’s 
why we’re late. The terrace was crowded.” 

He had raised his hat to Mrs. Verney. Now, bare¬ 
headed, he remained doggedly by the girl’s side. 

Joceline still stared up at her mother. 

“We’ve been in the woods,” she explained. “I thought 
a long walk would do me good. And it has. I’ve quite 
lost my headache.” 

Trench smiled at his secret thoughts. Mrs. Bicker¬ 
steth nodded and smiled back. She knew on which side 
she would fight. That strange story about the girl? Some¬ 
how, it didn’t ring true. Still, men, during the War, had 
been “chancy”—to use Piper’s pet expression. No won¬ 
der, spoilt by all the women! And quite right too, she 
added quickly, remembering the hell of the trenches. 
But this man had won through and emerged finer for the 
ordeal. He would never “ride away.” His voice roused 
her from speculation. 

“I hope it’s not inconvenienced you?” he said calmly 
to Mrs. Verney. 

She ignored him. 


YOUTH WINS 75 

“I want you, Joceline.” 

“I’m coming.” Her lips closed on the word with a sug¬ 
gestion of defiance. 

Mrs. Verney prepared to withdraw. This time she 
seemed to require assistance. 

“Thank you.” Her hand dropped from the other’s arm. 
“I’ve so enjoyed my tea and talk. We shall meet you 
to-night. By the way, if you ever feel inclined for bridge, 
just tell me and I’ll arrange a table. You have only to 
let me know at dinner.” 

With this remark, she reached the door, opened it—and 
there was Piper! 

She drew aside respectfully and Mrs. Verney passed out. 
Piper, her face rather grim, watched her progress down 
the passage: an old but nimble figure, suggesting indomi¬ 
table purpose. 

“Piper?” 

“Yes’m.” She stepped inside and closed the door care¬ 
fully. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was watching, but they came 
in the lower way.” 

“It couldn’t be helped.” Mrs. Bickersteth sighed. “I 
think I’ll get into my dressing-gown and lie down. I’m 
tired.” 

“You would be, ma’am.” Piper was turning down the 
bed. 

Her mistress paused, between two hooks. 

“Now, what do you mean by that?” 

“Well, she is tiring,” Piper insisted. “I’m sorry for the 
poor young lady. Now, ma’am.” She held the dress on 
the ground. Mrs. Bickersteth stepped out of it, one hand 
on the bony shoulder and yawned. “I’ll just undo your 


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76 

suspenders.” Piper, her lips compressed, tugged. “You 
didn’t ought to wear them so tight.” 

“It keeps me down,” said the sufferer. “Dear me, I 
sometimes think, Piper, it will be nice to be really old. 
Though I shan’t dress up like Mrs. Verney.” 

Piper gave a little snort. 

“You’ll always be respected, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth nodded wisely. 

At the other end of the corridor, in the wide, sunny 
room, Joceline, on her knees, was taking off her mother’s 
shoes in a silence which could be felt. Suddenly the old 
lady bent and picked a twig from her daughter’s skirt, 
then a little tuft of moss. She held them on the palm of 
her hand. Joceline, aware of the movement, looked up, 
to meet the scorn in the shrewd, dark eyes, the brows 
arched superciliously. Suddenly she revolted. 

“Yes. I’ve been lying on the grass. Like a common 
gipsy! But I enjoyed it—though it isn’t ‘suitable to my 
age.’ I know all that. Still you ought to be pleased. I’ve 
found a cure for my ‘nerves.’ I’ve had a wonderful holi¬ 
day, nearly a whole— Mother!” She sprang to her feet, 
arms outstretched, to support the swaying body. 

Mrs. Verney’s eyes were closed, one hand pressed to her 
heart. 

“The cachets,” she breathed. 

Joceline found them, poured water in a glass and guided 
it to the trembling lips. 

“You’ll be better soon.” Her voice shook. “I’m sorry. 
I didn’t mean it, mother.” 

Mrs. Verney leaned heavily against the young shoulder, 


YOUTH WINS 


77 

her face turned from the one above it, far paler than her 
own. 

“Help me to bed,” she whispered. “The pain’s a little 
easier now.” 

At last, with her daughter’s assistance, she was lying 
between the sheets. 

“Hadn’t I better send for the doctor?” Joceline urged. 
“Do let me, mother?” 

“No, the attack is over. He couldn’t do anything more 
for me. If I get some sleep, I shall be all right. But 
don’t leave me?” Her voice was piteous. 

“Never.” The girl stroked her hand. “I’ll sit here, 
close beside you. Are your pillows quite comfortable?” 
She moved one dexterously. 

For half an hour Mrs. Verney dozed. Dusk crept into 
the room and into the watcher’s heart. It was all very 
well for Oliver to preach independence for the young, but 
the old had a claim as well. Those pitiful, last years 
when the flesh seemed the master of the spirit, subduing 
it and calling for help as the worn organs ceased working. 

Suddenly Mrs. Verney stirred. 

“I’m better. You can order dinner—for both of us— 
up here. I shouldn’t mind a hot water bottle. My feet 
are rather chilly.” She added with a twist of her lips, 
“I’m sorry to spoil your ‘holiday.’ ” 

Joceline’s punishment had begun. 


CHAPTER V 


W [EN the Verneys did not appear at dinner, Mrs. 

Bickersteth felt anxious. She discussed their 
absence with her neighbour. 

“I don’t suppose we shall see them to-night,” Trench 
said rather grimly. 

“Then let’s have a little change?” The kindly lady was 
sorry for him. “We’ll go down to the other hotel for our 
coffee. Would you care for that?” 

“Sure.” He welcomed the distraction. 

“Perhaps there will be dancing to-night. Do you 
dance?” She was making plans ahead for the young 
couple. 

“I love it! Will you promise me the first tango?” he 
asked with a twinkle in his eye. 

“Silly boy!” But she was pleased. “I think I could 
walk there. It’s all downhill.” 

“Oh, we’d better drive,” he decided, but Mrs. Bicker¬ 
steth was brave. She had shirked her exercise. 

When the meal was over, they made their way to the 
road that fringed the lake. Trench offered her his arm, 
and she leaned on it comfortably, talking in her drifting 
fashion of her life in Devonshire. 

The young man’s thoughts wandered. He mistrusted 
Mrs. Verney profoundly. She was quite capable, he 
thought, of locking the girl in her room. This afternoon’s 
78 


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79 

episode would mean open warfare. Well, he preferred it. 
He would fight to the death. 

He came to himself with a start, aware that his com¬ 
panion was waiting for his response to one of her direct 
questions. 

“Where I lived before? In—in the Midlands.” He 
chuckled, and she glanced at him, divining some secret 
jest. 

“What is it?” she asked indulgently. 

“I was thinking of Mrs. Verney. She asked me what 
my ‘county’ was and I told her I was born in Derby. ‘Oh, 
in the Midlands,’ she said—like that! As though it put 
me outside the pale.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth looked embarrassed. What a snob the 
old lady was! 

“I know Derby,” she said brightly. “Such lovely coun¬ 
try round about. The Peak—I stayed one summer at 
Matlock and my husband took the waters.” Her hand 
tightened on his arm. “Let’s stop a minute. I want a 
rest.” 

They had come to the meeting of the roads, where the 
stream was submerged in the lake, and they halted, watch¬ 
ing the flow of the water. Trench took a sudden decision. 

“Mrs. Verney doesn’t like me,” he informed his breath¬ 
less companion, “or approve of my friendship with her 
daughter. I’m not in her set, you see. Thank God for 
that, if they’re like herself!” His head went up, on his 
strong young shoulders. “For what does she do in life? 
She’s eaten up with her own importance, yet she’s nothing 
to her. An old doll, with an iron will, who makes a slave 


80 YOUTH WINS 

of her daughter. And it’s worse than that,” he added 
darkly. 

“Come, come!” Mrs. Bickersteth soothed him. “I 
hope you’re exaggerating. Mrs. Verney may have her 
faults, but I’m sure she’s devoted to Joceline.” 

“Then she shows it in a strange fashion. Do you know 
what I think?” His face was stony. “That she’s living on 
her daughter’s strength. I’ve met old people like that 
before. They’re”—he paused—“human vampires.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth was genuinely shocked. 

“But that’s only a legend. Or—or bats. The girl’s 
anaemic and highly-strung. Her mother told me she suf¬ 
fered from nerves.” 

“Nerves!” he scoffed. “That’s easily said. She’s 
drained of vitality, nursing that selfish old woman. I’ve 
known a similar case—a cousin of mine who lived with a 
tyrannical father; was giving, giving all the time, because 
she had a lovely nature. And she died,” he added tersely. 

Unconsciously he moved on, Mrs. Bickersteth beside 
him. They turned up the dark Allee de Dante, the milky 
stream on their right, through the grounds of the Estab¬ 
lishment. Mrs. Bickersteth was silent, thinking. Could 
this be what Piper had hinted when she called Mrs. Ver¬ 
ney “tiring”? The old nurse had a fund of wisdom where 
young people were concerned. That massage too? Yes, 
it was wrong. The girl led an unnatural life. 

“I hope you’re not right,” she said at last. “Of course 
I’ve noticed she does look ill and, somehow, old beyond 
her years. But then I gather she’s seen much trouble. 
Her father’s death and—” She broke off, confused. 
Whereabout in that strange story had the old lady spoken 


YOUTH WINS 8t 

“in confidence”? Surely the warning had come later, in 
connection with the second lover? 

Her eyes were raised from the ground and she stum¬ 
bled. Immediately she felt Trench’s hand slip through 
her arm. 

“Take care of these loose stones,” he cautioned. 

She was touched. Yes, he ought to know. It would 
only appeal to his chivalry. Impulsively she poured out 
the history of the broken engagement, adding, with the 
little sniff that always proclaimed her scepticism or an 
affront to her pride: 

“Mrs. Verney thinks the fault is the girl’s—that she 
hasn’t the power to hold men’s devotion.” 

“She’d hold mine.” His voice was husky. 

Mrs. Bickersteth felt thrilled. He was going to confide 
in her! Purposely she slackened her steps. 

“Ah, you’re fond of her? I guessed as much.” 

Trench nodded, staring ahead, and a little silence fell 
between them. The motherly woman, too wise to break 
it, waited, knowing the ways of youth. At last Trench 
glanced sideways and met the sympathy in her eyes. 

“Ever since I first saw her. On the boat.” He spoke 
jerkily. “I don’t mind your knowing. To watch her, so 
—so attractive and wrapped up in the old lady’s comfort. 
Never thinking of herself and looking so fragile too. So I 
got into the same carriage, wondering if I could help, and 
hoping—hoping they’d talk to me. But they—didn’t. 
Still, I heard them speaking of Bagnoles and this hotel, 
and I managed to read one of the labels. On the rugs— 
I lifted them down. So when I got to Paris—” He 
paused. “Well, to cut a long story short, I’d meant to stay 


82 


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there, then go to Brussels, work my way through Holland 
and take a Dutch boat home. Instead of which I fol¬ 
lowed them here. I thought, somehow, in a quiet hotel, 
we might get together. I hadn’t exactly realized—” He 
stopped again. “Well, there it is! I don’t suppose I 
stand a chance. But I’m going on.” His face was 
set. 

Mrs. Bickersteth wondered, the scene in the wood fresh 
in her mind. Why this note of despair? Perhaps the girl 
had checked his advances, aware of her mother’s atti¬ 
tude? 

“I’ll help you all I can,” she told him. “But I don’t 
see why you should worry. Joceline is of age. She can 
marry whom she likes.” 

He caught her up: 

“I’m not so sure! There’s some mystery. Her mother 
has a hold on her. Though what it is beats me entirely. 
But I mustn’t get her into trouble. She can’t stand much 
more.” 

“No, be careful.” She was thinking of the future. 
“Above all, Oliver, don’t quarrel with Mrs. Verney.” 

Trench laughed. 

“It isn’t likely! She’d consider it utterly beneath her.” 

They were approaching the hotel. Mrs. Bickersteth 
said hastily: 

“Of course you understand, my dear, that what I said 
just now, about Joceline and Sir Roland, was quite in 
confidence?” 

“You can trust me,” he answered simply. “ ‘Roland’? 
That’s odd. A Roland for an Oliver?” Mrs. Bickersteth 
looked puzzled. “You know the story?” 


YOUTH WINS 


83 


“Not exactly.” 

“They were rivals under Charlemagne and what Ro¬ 
land did, Oliver did. Well, it won’t be true in my case. I 
mean I shan’t be driven away.” He saw her eyebrows 
contract and answered the look. “Yes, I’ll give him his 
due. Mrs. Verney was in it—up to the hilt! He never 
left Joceline of his own accord. That I’ll swear!” 

“And the other man too?” She was amazed. This had 
never occurred to her. 

“What other man?” he asked swiftly, and saw his com¬ 
panion bite her lip. 

“Oh, I oughtn’t to have let that slip! It was told me 
in confidence. How dreadful! You’ll never repeat it? 
Promise me?” 

“On my honour.” They had come to a halt. “But I 
think now you ought to explain. It isn’t fair—to Joce¬ 
line.” 

“I don’t know. I must think.” She stood there, con¬ 
victed of treachery, vainly searching her own conscience. 
If the mother had been influenced by a desire to protect 
her daughter, would it not be worse for the latter if this 
young man thought her light—a girl who had had many 
adventures? The doubt might tarnish his respect. Mrs. 
Bickersteth sighed. She had said both too much and too 
little. She looked up into his grave face. “I believe 
you’re right. I’ll tell you. Though I blame myself for 
speaking at all.” 

Trench listened, piecing together the threads of the dis¬ 
jointed story. 

“Well, now you know everything,” she concluded. 
“What do you think of it?” 


84 


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“I’ll tell you to-morrow.” Under his tan, his face had 
paled. “I’m not sure.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth understood. He was suffering from 
the primitive desire that lies in all virile men to find the 
woman of his heart plastic, yet uninfluenced by associa¬ 
tion with his sex. She had wandered down the path of 
love with other men—was pure but awakened. Yet her 
mother refuted this? He straightened his broad shoul¬ 
ders and deliberately evaded the issue. 

“What about your coffee?” he asked. 

They walked on into the light pouring from the lower 
windows, and mounted the steps of the hotel. 

The wide lounge was full to-night, not a seat in the 
veranda. Mrs. Bickersteth looked round at the gaily- 
dressed crowd. 

“Why,” she exclaimed, “there are the Thrings!” and 
moved forward impulsively. 

A couple rose from their chairs and greeted her with 
effusion. Trench, in her wake, saw a tall, gracefully built 
man, his black hair sprinkled with grey, a note of care in 
his dress, with liquid, melancholy eyes and an air of 
power and assurance. 

“Clever,” he thought, interested, and turned his atten¬ 
tion to the lady, who barely reached her husband’s shoul¬ 
der. 

Fragile, exquisitely clad, she held in her fair, wistful 
face, with its pointed chin and wide grey eyes, the veiled 
expression of discontent that marks the chronic invalid. 

Mrs. Bickersteth, her first excitement abating, intro¬ 
duced her cavalier: 

“I was tired of my hotel and Mr. Trench took pity on 


YOUTH WINS 


85 

me and brought me down here for coffee.” She added, for 
his benefit, “Lady Thring—Sir Raphael Thring. Now, 
isn’t this nice?” She subsided into the latter’s place 
whilst Trench captured two other chairs and they formed 
a circle round the table. “When did you arrive, Teresa? 
I had no idea you were here. Are you taking the cure?” 

“I’ve just begun it. We only reached Bagnoles on Fri¬ 
day”—Lady Thring glanced sideways at her husband— 
“and Raphael is tired of it already!” 

“Hardly that.” He smiled back. “But I hoped to find 
some one here to walk with. I must have exercise. And 
there seem to be few English people. The French will do 
anything but walk, and I prefer a companion.” 

“Well, here you are!” Mrs. Bickersteth waved her 
hand gaily to the fourth member of the party. “He isn’t 
one of the halt and maimed, though he pretends to drink 
the waters.” 

“Something to do,” Trench confessed. 

“Ah, you’re in the same plight?” Sir Raphael had 
been observing him. He liked the man’s athletic build 
and the candour of his bronzed face. “Well, if you’re 
willing, we might explore the country. I hear there are 
some delightful old chateaux within easy walking dis¬ 
tance.” 

“Let me warn you,” his wife interposed, smiling at 
Trench, “that this may mean anything up to twenty miles. 
Don’t let him kill you!” 

She turned to Mrs. Bickersteth, and the two women 
began to converse in a lower voice, filling the gap since 
their last meeting. The friendship dated from their girl¬ 
hood and, even now, the first call paid by Mrs. Bicker- 


86 


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steth when she stayed with Adela was invariably in 
Devonshire Place, where the Thrings lived, in a beautiful 
home full of pictures and works of art. Sir Raphael was 
a connoisseur with a famous collection. He had the deep 
love of beauty inherent in his mother’s race, for she had 
belonged to a prominent Jewish family. Trench detected 
this strain in his blood and was conscious that the name 
was familiar, although he could not exactly place it. As 
they chatted easily together, a reference to the War 
touched a spring of memory. Of course! The well- 
known alienist who had done so much for the saddest 
victims among the toll of broken men in the trail of 
Armageddon. The young man’s interest deepened and 
took on a note of respect. 

Sir Raphael insisted on playing the host and joined his 
guests in a liqueur. He was raising the glass to his lips 
when he paused, gazing down the room, on which a little 
hush had fallen. All eyes were turned eagerly to scruti¬ 
nize the approaching figure, that of a young woman with 
a superb composure, her slender form swathed in a cloak 
of ermine trimmed with monkey-fur. She paused and 
nonchalantly loosened the pliant folds. Her glance drifted 
over the crowd, as though calling for attention to her 
gown, now partly visible, of dead Egyptian pink, the 
drapery caught up by a clasp set with pale green scarabs. 

Apparently satisfied, she moved on, chose a table, set¬ 
tled herself languidly, and beckoned to a waiter, letting 
the cloak slip from her shoulders. 

“That’s a mannequin,” Sir Raphael decided. “A hand¬ 
some girl.” Into his eyes had sprung a keener look, specu¬ 
lative and admiring. 


YOUTH WINS 


87 

“Now, how did you guess that?” Mrs. Bickersteth 
stared at him. “She comes from our hotel, and a Mrs. 
Verney there told me all about her. She’s known as ‘la 
grande fille de chez Pallot,’ and she’s showing off their 
latest models. A new dress every day—it really is quite 
exciting! Although of course one couldn’t wear them,” 
she added rather wistfully. 

“Why not?” Sir Raphael was amused. “I wouldn’t 
mind betting that some man here will have to pay for that 
cloak.” 

The shrill hum of conversation had risen again from all 
sides, but the women’s eyes still openly devoured the cos¬ 
tume in question. 

“The dress is very plain. No trimming at all,” Mrs. 
Bickersteth, puzzled, observed. “It can’t have cost much 
to make, yet I hear their prices are enormous.” 

“But look at the lines,” said her host. “That drapery 
is the work of an artist.” 

“Then why not add it to my collection,” Lady Thring 
insinuated, and smiled at her old school friend. 

“I will, if you’ll wear it?” Sir Raphael responded. 

His wife sighed. 

“I’m not strong enough to go out at night.” 

“There you are!” He threw out his hands with an 
impatient gesture. 

Trench divined that the delicate, pampered woman was 
a malade imaginaire. 

“Do you always choose Teresa’s clothes?” Mrs. Bick¬ 
ersteth meant it as a joke. 

To her surprise, Sir Raphael responded in the affirma¬ 
tive. 


88 


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“I shouldn’t like that,” she thought with a vague sense 
of uneasiness. “Of course it’s annoying when Richard 
ignores a new hat, and he always prefers my old dresses, 
but it doesn’t seem natural for a man to interfere in 
women’s affairs. I know she has everything she wants”— 
her eyes slipped to the rope of pearls that were worth a 
little fortune and which fell into Lady Thring’s lap—“but 
it would distress me. I should feel”—she hesitated— 
“bought! What a pity there are no children.” 

She confided this everlasting sorrow of the pair to 
Trench as they drove home. 

“All those beautiful things,” she said, “and no one to 
leave them to! Sir Raphael is broken-hearted about it. 
Teresa goes from cure to cure and is always in the doctors’ 
hands. But isn’t it strange that the poor generally have a 
quiverful and yet the rich, who could afford it, are so 
often disappointed?” 

“Too much money,” Trench suggested. “They don’t 
live a natural life. My idea is that, to be healthy, you 
must have daily work. Though of course he must have 
worked hard to attain his present position. It’s puzzling, 
isn’t it? Was she well off when she married?” he asked. 

“Poor as a church mouse. Her people lived in Devon¬ 
shire, not very far from mine. I’ve known Teresa all my 
life. She used to make her own dresses and was never fit 
to be seen! Nobody thought she would marry, and then 
a neighbour took her abroad and she met Mr. Thring— 
as he was then; he was given his title later—and he fell 
madly in love with her.” She added, in her vague way, 
“He did a great deal for her people. It saved her father 
from selling the place.” 


YOUTH WINS 


89 

“I see.” Trench guessed the truth: the daughter sacri¬ 
ficed to fill the family exchequer. It explained the state 
of her health to him. There might have been bred affec¬ 
tion for the rich man whose name she shared, but love 
on her side was missing. “I should hate to marry a woman 
with money.” He had mentally inverted the case. 

“But Joceline has a thousand a year.” 

“No?” Trench looked startled. “I didn’t know it. I 
thought, from something she let slip, that she was—well, 
hard up.” 

“I expect she has only a dress allowance now, and you 
know what girls are!” Mrs. Bickersteth smiled benevo¬ 
lently. “It comes to her—the full income—on her mar¬ 
riage. So her mother explained.” 

“Then that’s it!” The young man struck his knee 
with his fist. “I might have guessed it! The hidden 
motive. Why Mrs. Verney drives away one man after 
another. Don’t you see?” His voice hardened. “It 
means less for herself. Not only money, but power. And 
power is Mrs. Verney’s god.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth was shocked. 

“But that would be dreadful! They’re very well off— 
it’s an old banking family. They’ve a beautiful home, 
near friends of mine, and a Villa at Mentone. And look 
at the way the old lady dresses?” 

“Exactly.” Trench smiled grimly. “You can—on an 
extra thousand a year! I don’t believe that Miss Verney 
has even an allowance.” He looked confused. “The fact 
is, I heard them talking in the garden. I was hunting for 
a tennis ball behind the bushes—they couldn’t see me. 
Her mother doled out a few francs and told her it must 


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90 

‘last/ and then Joceline refused to take it. It was too late 
to appear on the scene. I couldn’t help spying on them.” 

“Of course not.” Mrs. Bickersteth soothed him. 
“Dear me, this is very perplexing. I hope you’re not right. 
Still, of course, the girl was not yet twenty-one when her 
father died and probably, he left it all in her mother’s 
hands.” 

“She’d see to that!” Trench observed. 

They had reached their hotel. He helped his com¬ 
panion down and a little argument ensued, but he insisted 
on paying the fare. 

“Now, mind you sleep,” she told him, as they parted at 
the lift. “It’s no good meeting trouble half-way. I have 
a feeling things will come right.” She smiled up into his 
gloomy face. “Good night, Oliver.” 

“Good night, and—thank you!” He gave her a glance 
full of affection that warmed her motherly heart. 

She opened it, later, to Piper, who listened without in¬ 
terruption. 

“It’s true about the money, ma’am. Miss Verney hasn’t 
a penny-piece. Lady Carnedin’s maid told me. What’s 
more she loses her thousand a year if she marries without 
her mother’s consent.” 

“What?” Mrs. Bickersteth was staggered. She very 
nearly kicked Piper, who was drawing off her mistress’ 
stockings, with the sudden start she gave. “You don’t 
mean to say that was in the will? Oh, dear, that makes 
things worse. She doesn’t like Mr. Trench as it is, or 
think him good enough.” 

“The other leg, ma’am,” Piper commanded. “If you 
go on like this, you’ll never sleep.” 


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Qi 

“But listen!” Mrs. Bickersteth frowned. “Are you 
sure? How could that maid know?’’ 

“Well, ma’am”—Piper hesitated—“I shouldn’t like to 
suggest anythink, but there’s only a thin door between her 
room and Lady Carnedin’s, and Mrs. Verney takes tea 
there.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth nodded. Her thoughts went off at a 
tangent. Biographies of her own class should be written 
by the servants. Somehow, they generally got at the 
truth! That will, now? Mr. Verney had not looked like 
a weak man, to be ruled by his wife. But of course the 
War had changed everything. He might have foreseen 
Sir Roland’s fate and mistrusted fortune-hunters. Her 
instinct told her this was the line which Mrs. Verney 
herself had taken at a time when death ruled over the 
land. 

Piper helped her mistress to bed and proceeded to light 
the nightlight—a French one, which she mistrusted and 
placed in the middle of the basin in case it should explode. 

“Good night, ma’am.” She went out on tiptoe. 

Mrs. Bickersteth, wide-eyed, stared at the luminous 
patch thrown by the little flame on the ceiling. Her mind 
was busy. Could this be the “hold” on the girl which 
Oliver had divined? Was Joceline fond of money too? 
But in any case, as the only child, it would come to her 
on her mother’s death. She had a queer sense that this 
was not all. There was something further, a weapon Mrs. 
Verney hid. Still, Trench must be told to-morrow of the 
new factor in the case. A comfortable conviction seized 
her that the young man would be relieved. He was not 
after Joceline’s money. Her eyelids closed happily. Her 


YOUTH WINS 


92 

last thought before sleep claimed her was that this ex¬ 
plained the hitch in the love affair. 

“I know he proposed,” she told her pillow, “in the 
wood this afternoon. But Joceline asked for time. She 
didn’t like to tell him outright. I must try and—” She 
slipped into dreamland. 

Trench stood on the empty terrace in the clear morn¬ 
ing light. He had not been so fortunate as Mrs. Bicker- 
steth, but his bath had freshened him. A crisp feeling 
was in the air, and he walked up and down, watching the 
door. Would she come, the lady of his vigil? Mrs. Ver- 
ney had long since left, in the omnibus, unattended. 
Where was Joceline? 

In the night he had solved the problem. Money—that 
was the root of the evil. He knew that Mrs. Verney 
loved it. The very way she had counted over the small 
notes in her hand on that occasion in the garden had en¬ 
lightened him. A wave of pity flooded his heart as he 
thought of the girl, penniless, in the power of that sleek 
old tyrant, her father dead, no brother to help her, her 
would-be lovers refused the house. 

Why could she not break away and work, like many 
another modern girl? He realized that, in her class, the 
necessary education had been denied her from her birth. 
She had not even the means for a training. No, she was 
helpless, fast in the cage of caste tradition and prejudice. 
She “belonged” to her mother—slavery! He ground his 
strong teeth together. 

The lounge door opened. He sprang forward. 


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93 

“At last!” He looked at her searchingly and his joy- 
faded, for she was bareheaded. 

“I can’t come.” She sounded breathless. “But I saw 
you from the window, waiting, so I slipped down to ex¬ 
plain. I have to write some letters for mother—im¬ 
portant ones—to our steward. You understand, don’t 
you?” 

“Not altogether. Why shouldn’t they wait? There’s 
no post out before twelve.” Unconsciously his voice 
blamed her, for he felt a change in her manner. 

“I can’t help it.” In her eyes was the old baffling, 
empty look. “I must think of my mother first. She had 
a heart attack last night. I have to be careful not to up¬ 
set her.” With that, she made a movement to leave him. 

Trench was wounded. 

“I understand.” 

She turned in the doorway and looked back, caught by 
the bitterness of his tone. 

“You don’t!” she said desperately. “If you did—” 

She had gone; the door swung to. 

He stood there, staring after her, his heart pounding 
against his ribs. For in the sapphire eyes he had seen, 
for the first time, a swift flame that swept away all his 
doubts. 

She cared, then? He could have shouted aloud in that 
moment of exultation. Mrs. Verney might lock her in 
her room, but love would win in the end. He would carry 
Joceline back with him to the free life of California. It 
only needed time and patience. 

And her mother had called her passionless? Trench 


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94 

laughed under his breath, all his virile youth rejoicing. 
Then his face clouded. Those other men? With an ef¬ 
fort he conquered his jealousy. The past did not belong 
to him. It was possible, too—his brow cleared—that she 
had not truly loved either, but welcomed a road of escape 
from home. There was something in her still face un¬ 
satisfied, as if she had sought vainly for happiness, which 
supported this theory. He turned and made his way down 
the steps, hearing voices in the lounge. He must be alone 
and think. 

Leaving the tennis-court behind him, he became im¬ 
mersed in plans for the future. He was glad now that he 
had sold the row of cottages in Derby, which had come to 
him on his father’s death. He was in funds for the mo¬ 
ment, though part of this was already pledged to his part¬ 
ners in California. The necessity for a fresh sum of 
money to carry out long-needed improvements had been 
the main object of his journey back to the old country. 
What would they say to his marriage? He believed they 
would welcome it. There would be an end to their hap¬ 
hazard domestic ways. And Joceline would thrive in that 
perfect climate. There was room in the bungalow for 
them both. Later they could build their own. 

Fancy finding her there to greet him after his long day’s 
work; supper in the wide veranda, with the orange trees, 
starry with fruit against a sky of deep blue velvet—that 
dead-gold, patrician head and the movement of her soft, 
white hands? 

He drew a deep breath of delight and became aware of 
a pungent, aromatic odour. Smoke was drifting through 
the air, the clean savour of a bonfire. He turned a cor- 


YOUTH WINS 


95 


ner, screened by bushes, and there it lay in a waste patch; 
a mound of leaves and green twigs, with a thin, grey 
column rising. 

A “smother fire.” The old name, familiar in his boy¬ 
hood, returned to him. Many a time had he played round 
a heap like this at the end of the road near the allot¬ 
ments, where his parents had lived, on the outskirts of 
Derby. 

The leaves were only half dried by the sun and the sap 
in the little boughs prevented the fire from gaining ground, 
but within was the slow, sure consumption. It would 
smoulder like this for hours under its green smother, if 
no help came to it. 

Trench looked round and saw a stake lying by a row 
of pots. He picked it up, paused for a moment to gauge 
the direction of the wind, and parted the heap on that 
side. 

The glowing heart was exposed. In rushed the breeze. 
With a sudden roar the flame leaped up, licking tongues 
of yellow and red, to take the place of the ghostly smoke. 
Now it blazed, free, rejoicing. 

Trench stepped back from the heat and smiled, at first 
boyishly, then with a maturer thought. It was an alle¬ 
gory. Had he not caught a glimpse that morning of un¬ 
known depths in the girl he loved? Of that “smother 
fire,” so deceptive, choked down by tradition? It only 
needed the clean breeze of youth and freedom to fan the 
flame. 

Again he plunged his stake in the mass and loosened 
the heavy burden of leaves. 


CHAPTER VI 


RENCH lay in the cool bracken, staring up at the 
Tour de Bonvouloir. 



■*“ The sun had dipped below the hills and the sky 
was a clear duck’s-egg green. Against it, the lonely 
tower with its weather-beaten stone looked like a black¬ 
ened thumb, a slender finger raised above it capped with 
a metal thimble, where the tourelle rose from the pointed 
roof. There it stood, surviving the chateau built in the 
fifteenth century, with no avenue of approach, hemmed in 
by heath and fern, on the edge of the Foret d’Andaine. 

Its slates were as high as the tops of the trees. Loop¬ 
holes looked to the four quarters, empty like the eyes of 
a statue. On one side, a pollard leaned, the new growth 
brushing the lintel above the rusty iron door. Gro¬ 
tesquely shorn of its upper boughs, gnarled and ancient, 
the crooked tree, in the evening shadows, resembled a 
dwarf guarding the ruin from intruders, 

A tower for a long-lost princess, Trench dreamed as he 
gazed at it, imprisoned there by a cruel parent; a Joceline 
of mediaeval days, waving her fragile hand from the dark 
opening, on the forest, in eternal adieu to her banished 
lover. 

The air was filled with the woodland smell of mossy 
earth, and sharp, more insistent, that of wild mint cutting 
across the sweetness of crushed bracken. Absolute still¬ 
ness reigned, and the tower seemed to refute Time, as 


YOUTH WINS 


97 

though, in a breath, it had passed away, leaving Trench 
on another plane, ruled alone by the emotions, eternal as 
the sky above. He sighed from the depths of his troubled 
heart, still young enough to feel restless before this vision 
of moribund peace. 

For four days they had not spoken—that was the 
grievance in his heart. Joceline seemed as elusive, as dis¬ 
tant as when they first had met. Even Mrs. Bickersteth, 
patiently manoeuvring, could not bring the pair together. 
There were no more early walks. The girl was invisible, 
until her mother returned from her bath. In the evening 
they would play bridge, or Joceline watch the game, seated 
at Mrs. Verney’s elbow. The old lady looked triumphant. 
What had she done to subdue her daughter? Only once 
had Trench caught a wistful glance in his direction during 
these endless hours—a glance hurriedly averted. Delib¬ 
erately she avoided him. 

Had it not been for Sir Raphael Thring, Trench would 
have found the days hard to fill, despite his store of dogged 
patience. They tramped for hours across country, the 
younger man thankful for exercise that sent him to bed 
dog-tired, the elder one unwearied and restless, pleased to 
find a healthy companion, apt to be distrait at times, but, 
on the whole, a good listener. 

Beyond the desire to stretch their legs, they held few 
ideas in common: Sir Raphael, over-cultured, a worship¬ 
per of beauty never wholly satisfied, disillusioned, out¬ 
wardly suave and inwardly cynical; Trench, young at 
heart, questioning life, with the modern love of utility, a 
little ashamed of being moved by the glory of a sunset, 
but argumentative when his companion attacked one of 


YOUTH WINS 


98 

his ideals. Sir Raphael, for instance, held no belief in 
man’s immortal soul. Human impulses and acts were dic¬ 
tated by the brain that would perish with the death of the 
body. Only the former lifted man above the level of 
animal life. His long work among the insane had con¬ 
firmed him in this theory. The slightest lesion or clot of 
blood, and where was this “soul” upheld by priests? 
Loosen the mechanism of Reason and a Saint became a 
murderer! Look at religious mania, for instance? Was 
that the influence of the soul or the brain diseased by 
unhealthy obsessions? 

Trench shrank from the scientist’s conclusions. They 
jarred with the younger man’s view of life; his belief in 
free will as a test of human courage and endurance and the 
glimmer he caught, as of a lamp, shining behind daily 
acts, that only smuttiness could dim, the dirt of evil 
thoughts and deeds. He had a feeling that God looked on 
and approved “decent work”; was Himself the Master 
Craftsman* 

Sir Raphael’s deity was Beauty. According to him, a 
man worked to gain the means to buy Beauty, in the form 
which pleased him most, either sensual or intellectual, and 
afterwards—Trench sought for a word, buried deep in 
the bracken, and with the clean palate of youth chose de¬ 
liberately: “gloated,” conscious of its nasty flavour. He 
felt sorry for Lady Thring. He had seen Sir Raphael’s 
liquid eyes drift over her with the same expression as 
when he priced an Old Master. Money again? Trench 
wondered. Did it always bring evil in its wake? Yet 
man should be paid for his labour; ambition was a goodly 
thing. Suddenly he saw light. It all depended on char- 


YOUTH WINS 


99 

acter. A man must be strong enough to stand the ulti¬ 
mate test of wealth. 

He scrambled up, for a supple figure had emerged from 
the tower. Sir Raphael came, with his springing step, 
over the uneven ground. 

“I got the key at the farm,” he said, “and went up. 
It was hardly worth it. There’s a little prison under the 
roof and an inscription—rather curious.” He recited it, 
with his perfect accent: 

“ Adieu, Tour dont les murs sombres 
Souvent m’abriterent dans leurs ombres, 

Enfant.’ 

After that I opened the door leading to the toureUe. A 
circular staircase, very dark. I left it alone, as it didn’t 
look too safe to me.” He drew out his gold case and 
lighted a cigarette. “Have one?” Trench refused. 
“Well, I think you were wiser to stay here. It’s more 
romantic from outside. I had a look at the Roman Camp, 
but they’re all the same. The Roman mind was hopelessly 
stereotyped. It’s strange though, how they always chose 
a site commanding a perfect view.” 

“Well, it had to take in all the country for purposes of 
defence,” Trench remarked, as they fell into step, their 
faces turned to Juvigny. 

“But what about the forest here? Cover for an enemy. 
Before the age of explosives it could have concealed a 
large army, impossible to dislodge. But of course”—his 
quick brain solved the enigma—“the trees have en¬ 
croached on the plateau. It was probably a wood in those 


100 


YOUTH WINS 


days, or even non-existent. That’s it!” He smiled, white 
teeth showing for a moment in his olive face. “Now, we 
shall have to step out to get you home in time to change. 
Lady Thring doesn’t like being kept waiting for her din¬ 
ner.” 

Trench nodded and lengthened his stride. The light 
was dying out of the sky before the advance of dusk. 
Somehow, the mystery of that slender tourelle had de¬ 
parted. It was no longer Joceline’s tower. If only she 
had been with him, sitting in the green bracken, slim* 
hands folded in her lap. He had accepted Lady Thring’s 
invitation to dine with them and watch the dancing after¬ 
wards, in a moment of rebellion. It hurt his manhood to 
remain, waiting, for ever waiting, for a sign or word 
from the girl. To-night he would dance if the chance 
arose, forget her for a brief span. 

He parted from his companion in front of the old curio 
shop that invites loiterers on the bridge, reached the hotel 
by the lower path and made his way to his room. A note 
lay on the dressing-table, written in a sloping hand. He 
opened it, and his face changed as he skimmed the con¬ 
tents: 

Dear Oliver: 

I think you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve persuaded Mrs. 
Verney to let me take Joceline to coffee to-night at the Thrings’ 
hotel. I’ve said nothing about dancing, and she doesn’t know 
you’ll be there. So be careful how you slip out. Mrs. Verney 
is playing bridge at some Villa. Look out for us, as we mustn’t 
stay late, but I thought you’d like a partner! 

Yours sincerely, 

Elizabeth N. Bickersteth. 


YOUTH WINS 


IOI 


Trench gave a whoop of joy. What a brick she was! 
His depression dropped from him like a cloak. Now, 
where were those new silk socks? His thoughts were 
tumbling over. To dance with her—damn that bootlace! 
He tugged at the knot, then laughed aloud. One up on 
Mrs. Verney! He would like to see her with old Thring. 
Those two would be well-matched. He gathered up his 
sponge and towels, and paused, struck by some resem¬ 
blance between the strangely dissimilar pair. A love of 
money? Not exactly. The power it brought, to possess 
and hold. As he went to his bath, it came to him that 
this was the hidden curse of wealth which gradually stifled 
generous impulse in a nature tainted by jealousy. To be 
absolute—forgetting God. 

“I can understand an agnostic,” he thought, “but an 
atheist beats the band! It seems such darned ingrati¬ 
tude!” 

As he emerged from the bathroom, he encountered Mrs. 
Bickersteth and stopped to pour out his thanks. 

“How ever did you wangle it?” 

“It wasn’t easy.” She beamed at him. He looked so 
fresh and vigorous, with his damp, crisp hair and the 
strong young throat, bared above his dressing-gown. “I 
told her you were off on a long expedition and that I 
should be lonely at dinner, suggesting that Joceline should 
share my table. Then the coffee, as an ‘afterthought,’ and 
that we could pick up Mrs. Verney in our cab on the 
way home.” Her eyes twinkled. “That did it! I’ve 
often noticed that people with extravagant tastes rejoice 
in small economies. She was gracious because of the lift! 
Now, don’t you be late. I’m glad you’re pleased.” 


102 


YOUTH WINS 


“Pleased! If I didn’t think you’d smack my face—” 
He looked at her wickedly. 

“Behave yourself!” Mrs. Bickersteth laughed, and re¬ 
treated through the door of her room, to catch Piper 
broadly grinning. 

For Piper had become his friend ever since the day 
when he had begged her to sew a loose button on his 
coat, a transaction in a side passage, Trench talking in 
his happy way, Piper spinning out her task. He had never 
met her since without a cheery “Good morning!” and the 
old nurse was contemplating an inquiry into the state of 
his socks. She felt sure he “walked through them.” 

Lady Thring had no reason to regret her invitation that 
night. She was surprised by the young man’s brilliance. 
Sir Raphael too. He watched Trench with the little spark 
of mockery that lay in the depths of his Jewish eyes be¬ 
neath their chronic melancholy. He was always a per¬ 
fect host and his instinct warned him that his guest had no 
desire to linger at table, when Trench resisted a dish of 
peaches. 

“No fruit?” he observed suavely. “Then let us secure 
some seats for coffee. That is”—he consulted his wife 
with his habitual courtesy—“if you’re quite ready, my 
dear.” 

“Quite.” 

She rose, and they made their way to where the band 
was already playing. 

“This corner, I think. It faces the door.” Sir Raphael 
was amused by his guest’s eager acquiescence. “Expect¬ 
ing some girl,” he thought. For people came from the 
Villas on dance nights. 


YOUTH WINS 


103 

When Mrs. Bickersteth sailed in and Trench stiffened 
in his chair, the onlooker was surprised. 

Then he saw the girl at her side and his own interest 
quickened. For Joceline was looking lovely. She had 
caught from the elderly lady a touch of joyous expecta¬ 
tion, with the sense of light and movement round her. 
There was a faint rose in her cheeks; her sapphire eyes, 
wide-open, drank in the gay scene; the groups gathered 
round the tables, animated, chattering French, and the 
couples already taking the floor. She moved to the 
rhythm of the music, graceful but self-assured. 

“There are my friends,” Mrs. Bickersteth told her 
composedly, “with Mr. Trench. So he dined here? I 
think you will like Lady Thring. I’ve known her since 
my girlhood. Come along, dear.” For now Joceline was 
hanging back. 

Trench, nervously watching her, had seen the girl start 
and the delicate colour warming her skin deepen, to re¬ 
cede and leave her white. This had not escaped his host’s 
attention. So he had been correct, after all? 

“That’s a handsome girl,” he said to Trench. “Is she 
staying at your hotel?” 

“Yes—Miss Verney.” Trench rose to his feet, pale 
himself under his tan. 

She had come, but she hadn’t expected to meet him. 
She might make some excuse and vanish. 

But presently, to his relief, Mrs. Bickersteth had taken 
his seat and he found himself Joceline’s partner, at his 
host’s instigation. 

“Now go and enjoy yourselves,” Mrs. Bickersteth said 


104 YOUTH WINS 

to them, her eyes twinkling. “You can only be young 
once!” 

There was no way out of it. Joceline surrendered. In 
silence, they became involved in the swiftly-moving throng. 

After a few turns, however, Trench paused near the 
door. 

“It’s hot in here. Let’s go out?” His voice was jerky. 
“Do you mind? Shall you want a cloak?” he added. 

“No, it’s quite warm.” Her eyes were averted. 

They went down the steps into the night. 

Avoiding the groups round the veranda, they turned to 
where, in the distance, a lake was glimmering white in 
the moonlight against the background of wooded heights, 
piled on the rocks, under a sky of lapis blue powdered 
with stars. 

It seemed as if neither could break the silence, the hush 
that brooded over the water. 

A little island in the centre was joined to each shore by 
a wooden bridge with a latched gate midway that marked 
the boundary of the grounds. When they reached this, 
Trench halted. 

The girl’s eyes were fixed on the lake and the curve of 
the dark bank. She could feel her companion’s tension 
and instinctively her head went up. She braced herself 
for a fresh ordeal. 

“Now”—Trench’s voice was husky—“will you tell me 
what I have done to offend you?” 

She turned, startled. 

“You? Nothing.” 

“Then why have you”—-he choked—“dropped me?” 


YOUTH WINS 


105 

“I haven’t.” She stirred restlessly, with a quick look 
towards the hotel. “I’ve been busy. That’s all.” 

“Then will you come for a walk to-morrow?” 

“I can’t.” She would not meet his eyes. 

“You don’t want to? Or is it because your mother 
does not approve of our friendship?” 

“Partly.” A shiver ran over her. 

“You’re catching cold.” He unlatched the gate. “It 
will be more sheltered under the bank.” 

She hesitated, then passed through the opening. Trench 
gave her a swift glance, as he let the gate swing behind 
them. She wore the old, incurious look, a mask which 
he could not penetrate. 

They reached the land. Before them rose a steep path 
leading into the woods. It was dark here, with glints of 
moonlight piercing the boughs above. 

“Why should your mother come between us?” Trench 
spoke hardly. “You’re not a child! You can choose 
your own friends. And you seemed happy, those first 
mornings.” Bitterness crept into his tone. “I think, per¬ 
haps, it would have been kinder if you’d turned me down 
at the start.” 

She did not answer. His eyes stole sideways. Her 
head was bent, her gaze fixed on her little slippers which 
matched the delicate peach-coloured dress. Suddenly 
something fell on the satin covering her breast and glis¬ 
tened in a shaft of light from the parted trees overhead. 

“Joceline!” He halted, aghast. “I’ve made you cry— 
what a brute I am!” She was hurrying forward, but he 
checked her, one hand on her bare arm. “Please?” His 


106 YOUTH WINS 

voice was imploring. “If you only knew what I really 
feel! How I—” 

“No, no!” She tried to stop him. “Don’t say it! It’s 
no good. You’d only be—” A sob choked her. 

“Be what?” 

“You’d go.” 

He just caught the last word. 

“Never! Not if you cared. Do you care?” 

She raised her head. He had never seen any one look 
so sad. 

“It’s no good,” she repeated. “I daren’t risk—” 

His arms went round her. 

“There’ll be no risk when you’re mine. I’m strong 
enough for both of us.” 

“Ah!” she sobbed, “I’m not. I’m—afraid!” 

The next moment, she was crying noiselessly, her face 
pressed against his sleeve, her body trembling with the 
effort to regain her control. 

In the little clearing to which they had climbed was one 
of the benches erected by a thoughtful Administration. 
He drew her, unresisting, to it. 

The girl, dazed, became aware that he was wiping the 
tears from her face with his own handkerchief. The 
clumsy tenderness of his action broke down the last bar¬ 
rier between them. 

“Oh, Oliver, I’m so unhappy!” 

“You needn’t be. I’ll take care of you. No one shall 
hurt you”—his anger flared out—“no one! I’m here to 
prevent it.” He drew her closer. “That is if you’ll let 
me,” and bending his head he kissed her. 

For a moment he thought she was going to repulse him. 


YOUTH WINS 


107 

Then her salt lips clung to his; her body went lax in his 
arms. It was more than a girl’s surrender. Beneath the 
smother, the fire leaped up. Trench, at last, trembling 
himself, released her, to look in her flushed face. 

“Joceline—Joceline,” he murmured, “how sweet you 
are! Oh, my dear . . .” 

She drew back, at his broken voice. Realization poured 
in. 

“I oughtn’t to have let you! ” she cried. 

“Why not?” He smiled at her. “There’s nothing wrong 
in our loving each other.” 

“But there is. You don’t understand.” 

“Then tell me?” 

She shook her head. 

“You won’t be allowed to marry me.” 

“Won’t I!” He almost laughed. “We’ll see about that. 
I mean to take you back with me to California.” 

The sadness had returned to her face. 

“I couldn’t leave mother alone. My father”—she fal¬ 
tered—“trusted her to me.” 

“When?” 

“Before he was killed—in a letter.” 

Trench thought rapidly. 

“But you were engaged at the time. To Sir Roland 
Scrope. Mrs. Bickersteth told me.” He saw her frown 
and went on strongly, “Your father expected you to 
marry.” 

“But it was broken off.” 

“Only afterwards.” He held his ground. 

“Yes, I’d forgotten that.” She was staring across at the 
opposite trees. “It’s such a long way back. It seems 


io8 


YOUTH WINS 


now like another life. Poor Roland! I sometimes 
think that I treated him very badly. I was so young, 
you see. I didn’t really understand how hard it was for 
him to wait.” 

Trench was utterly bewildered. 

“Oh, he waited?” 

“He had to. It was to have been a year’s engagement, 
but after that, each time when he came home on leave, 
with everything ready, mother was ill.” 

Trench nearly whistled, in his surprise. 

“You mean, he waited for the marriage?” 

“Of course. He had even the licence ready. But I 
couldn’t leave mother—she would have died! She was 
different then, so broken. So, at last, I had to choose be¬ 
tween them.” 

“My God!” He had realized the truth: the girl’s noble 
sacrifice. He could have killed Mrs. Verney, remembering 
her specious story. 

At the muffled exclamation, she started and looked up 
into his face. 

“You think it wasn’t fair to Roland? But it seemed 
the only thing to do. That last time—the day before— 
I was trying on my wedding-dress and mother fainted. 
She had one heart attack after another. She begged me 
not to desert her.” 

A clock struck the hour, and her dreamy look of intro¬ 
spection gave place to alarm. 

“We must go back! We shall be missed.” 

“All right,” he said soothingly, and helped her to her 
feet. “But tell me as we go along how you want me to 


YOUTH WINS 


109 

act, dearest. I suggest that for the present we should 
keep our secret to ourselves?” 

“We must,” she breathed. 

Trench smiled in the darkness. He was on the right 
path. 

“And we’ll have our early walks together and meet 
sometimes after dinner or when your mother goes out to 
bridge. I shall be very careful. Shall we tell Mrs. Bick- 
ersteth?” 

“No. She’s a dear, but— Oh, Oliver, it doesn’t seem 
right. I oughtn’t to let you. Only—” 

He felt her hand tighten in his. 

They had come to the last of the trees. Trench checked 
her. 

“Then give me one more? It has to last me—until 
Walden!” 

He took it—with a difference. This time she had her¬ 
self in hand. He smiled at the feminine touch when she 
asked quickly: 

“Do I look awful? I don’t want people to guess I’ve 
been crying.” 

He studied her face in the moonlight. 

“You look the loveliest thing ever! But I’ll tell you 
what we’ll do. Wait here!” He ran down to the lake, 
rinsed his handkerchief in the water and brought it back 
in a folded pad. “Now, just put this against your eyes. 
For a minute—it will freshen them up.” 

She obeyed him like a child. 

“Is that better?” she queried at last. 

“Fine!” 


no 


YOUTH WINS 


She smiled, under his loving glance. 

“Powder-puff next!” She searched in her bag. “You 
hold the glass.” She handed him the little mirror. 
“Lower, silly! I’m not your height.” She laughed, with 
a soft ring in the sound that was music in her lover’s ears. 
He watched her pass the puff over her face, wholly intent 
on her reflection. Glancing up, she noticed a change in his 
expression. “What is it? You don’t approve of powder?” 

“It wasn’t that,” he said, smiling. “I was thinking 
ahead—wondering how often I should watch you do that 
when we’re married.” 

He saw fear dawn in her eyes. 

“Don’t look ahead. It’s—unlucky!” 

Trench checked the words that rose to his lips. 

“No. Thank God, we have the present.” 

He saw the issue fairly now. It was his will against 
Mrs. Verney’s. Yet, still, he sensed a mystery. Why was 
the girl so afraid of her mother? The habit of submis¬ 
sion was strong, but she loved him—he was sure of that— 
and, deep in her heart, rebellion smouldered. Perhaps 
when she knew him better she would tell him the whole 
truth. 


CHAPTER VII 


M RS. BICKERSTETH was aggrieved. She had 
fully expected to hear from Trench an account 
of all that had transpired during the lengthy 
interval between the young couple’s disappearance from 
the lounge and their return. 

They had come in very quietly and settled down to a 
last chat with the Thrings and herself, until the hour 
warned the latter it was time to call for Mrs. Verney. 
Yet Mrs. Bickersteth’s instincts told her that “something 
had happened,” as she studied the two faces. She felt a 
little annoyed with Sir Raphael for monopolizing Joce- 
line, leaving Trench to Lady Thring’s languid observa¬ 
tions. Teresa had been dull that night. 

“She should stir herself,” thought her friend. “She’s 
really a very poor hostess.” 

The next day she had questioned Trench and found the 
young man reticent. They had been for “a turn in the 
moonlight”—this was all she could glean from him. 
Affairs were moving too slowly for the lover of romance. 

“I shan’t beg for his confidence,” she decided, her 
Roman nose in the air. “Though I must say it seems un¬ 
grateful. They must get on without me now!” 

It seemed to her, silently watchful, that the breach be¬ 
tween the pair had widened. Trench avoided both mother 
and daughter, save for a formal bow when he passed the 
pair at lunch. The old lady would smile to herself, with 
hi 


112 


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a slightly malicious glance levied at the young man’s 
table. But Mrs. Bickersteth noticed a change, as the 
days passed on, in Joceline. It reminded her of the sec¬ 
ond blooms of the roses she loved at home. The girl was 
flowering under her eyes. There must be something going 
on! 

It was true that occasionally, in the evenings, Trench 
and Joceline were missing, when Mrs. Verney was ab¬ 
sorbed in a battle with the General. Always the girl 
would slip back alone. Trench later, would stroll up, 
draw a chair close to his elderly friend, and chat with her, 
on every subject under the sun save the one she inwardly 
craved! She was getting utterly disgusted. She had 
wasted her time. Could it be that Mrs. Verney had 
spoken the truth when she said men tired of her daugh¬ 
ter? 

Piper had no further news; she had pumped her fellow- 
maid dry. Lady Carnedin kept to her suite, though Mrs. 
Bickersteth had hoped to find in her a new source of gos¬ 
sip. The disappointment added to her loneliness. She 
was too shy to air her French with the foreign contingent 
and, after a few tentative efforts on the part of “the Gen¬ 
eral” and others, they concluded that she belonged to the 
type familiarized by their novels—all front teeth and 
British phlegm! Yet, how she longed to chatter. 

She watched too, with a sense of being cheated, Sir 
Raphael’s monopoly of Trench. With a cynicism rare 
in her, she decided that it was a mistake to “pass on 
friends.” They were stolen from you! It was true that 
Teresa still claimed her, but her conversation was limited 
to two topics: her health and “clothes.” 


YOUTH WINS 


113 

“It’s all very well,” thought the injured lady, “if you 
have the ‘slim silhouette'—scraggy, I call it, at my age— 
but I can't afford eccentricities. Besides, there's Elsie to 
provide for and this new idea of hers. I must make my 
dresses last.” 

Still, she spent a happy afternoon draping her “old 
black satin” on Piper, whose thin form was padded with 
towels; the folds caught together “carelessly” by a 
cabochon affair, made of green beetle wings from a cher¬ 
ished piece of embroidery which a cousin had brought 
home from India. She wore it to dinner with the Thrings, 
and Sir Raphael’s eyes, which missed nothing, had twin¬ 
kled, divining the source of the inspiration: the manne¬ 
quin's Egyptian dress with its exquisite clasp of pale 
green scarabs. But she still clung to the jet comb, like a 
gate at the back of her massive head. Teresa, with a 
grain of mischief, had told her she was getting “quite 
French!” 

“And how is your pretty young friend?” she asked. 
“Raphael saw her in the woods with Mr. Trench the 
other morning.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth hid her surprise and glanced at her 
host for confirmation. 

“An early bird,” he supplemented. “It couldn’t have 
been nine o'clock. But he’d found his worm all right!” 

This increased the good lady’s grievance. Why 
couldn't Trench be honest? She was disappointed in the 
man. And Joceline, deceiving her mother like that—still 
waters run deep! Mrs. Bickersteth quite forgot that she 
had connived at their secrecy. She went to bed, weary of 
youth and awoke to fresh annoyance of an unexpected 


ii 4 


YOUTH WINS 


kind. For Piper had “overslept” herself—this was her 
explanation, aggressive, because she felt guilty and was 
prepared for a dressing-down. But Mrs. Bickersteth for¬ 
gave her, adding insult to injury; for Piper was strung-up 
for a scene and it seemed a very tame ending. She flapped 
about on her flat feet, bristling at every angle. 

Mrs. Bickersteth was wounded. It would have been a 
relief to her temper to have given Piper a “good scolding,” 
and all she got in return for her self-control was “a fit 
of the sulks!” 

In a heavy silence, she dressed and went out into the 
garden—not because she wanted to go, but because the 
atmosphere was explosive. It was far too late for her 
bath and she wandered aimlessly, past the deserted tennis- 
court, out of the reach of Piper’s eyes. She was ostenta¬ 
tiously shaking furs on the balcony—to show that she for¬ 
got nothing—instead of going to her breakfast. 

On went Mrs. Bickersteth, doggedly taking exercise. 
Before her was a clump of bushes, a beaten path winding 
round them. She had never explored this corner before. 
She sailed on, turned to the left, and halted with a sudden 
gasp. There, within a yard of her, was Joceline in her 
lover’s arms! 

“Oh!” Mrs. Bickersteth stepped back, hot and con¬ 
fused. “I’m sorry! I—” 

The young people shot apart. For a moment the air 
was full of tension. Then Trench laughed. Mrs. Bicker- 
steth’s face was too much for his sense of humour. Her 
eyes were popping out of her head. 

“Caught!” he said, and glanced at the girl. 

Joceline recovered her dignity. 


YOUTH WINS 


ii5 

“Please don’t go.” She moved closer and, rather shyly, 
held out her hand to the embarrassed intruder, her sap¬ 
phire eyes full of entreaty. “Oliver has wanted to tell 
you.” 

She could not have said anything better. Mrs. Bicker* 
steth’s rancour fell away. 

“But I guessed it! ” She beamed on them. “That night 
at the dance. Yes, my dears. Well, I hope you’ll both 
be very happy.” 

She drew Joceline to her and kissed her. 

“And what about me?” Trench laughed. 

Before Mrs. Bickersteth could prevent him, he slipped 
an arm round her solid waist and saluted her on the cheek. 

“Well, I never!” She tried to reprove him and failed. 
“If you’d put that plank on those two big pots, I could 
sit down and hear everything. I really can’t stand much 
longer.” 

They hastened to build her a throne. 

“There’s room for us all.” Mrs. Bickersteth lowered 
herself gingerly. “Yes, it seems quite safe. Now, you 
sit on either side of me.” 

Joceline complied, but Trench, in a man’s way, pre¬ 
ferred to face the situation bn his feet. He was fond of 
Mrs. Bickersteth, but he wondered if she could keep a 
secret. That story now, “in confidence?” 

“You’re the only one who knows,” he began. “You see, 
we’ve not fixed things yet. I’m waiting for a cable to 
tell me how long I can be spared. And at present we 
think it wiser to say nothing to Mrs. Verney.” His eyes 
sought Mrs. Bickersteth’s. 

She nodded her head. 


n6 


YOUTH WINS 


“I understand.” 

“Mother is not very strong,” said Joceline. “And if— 
if she didn’t approve, she might fall ill in the midst of 
her cure. We both think it better to wait.” 

She glanced rather helplessly at her lover, who 
promptly shouldered the burden again. 

“We didn’t even tell you ”—he smiled at her winningly 
—“because, when it does come out—well, it’s no good pre¬ 
tending—there’ll be a dust up! We didn’t mean you to 
be in it. You’d been so kind already. You see?” 

“But I’d rather. I want to help you, and I’ve had so 
much experience.” She underlined the word, laying a 
hand on the girl’s arm. “I noticed you seemed happier 
and I think perhaps, at present , you’re wise.” She sighed 
sentimentally. “Why shouldn’t you have your golden 
hour?” 

Joceline dared not look at Trench. His lips twitched, 
but he nodded gravely. 

“You can count on me to keep your secret.” Mrs. 
Bickersteth resumed, in her slow, pleasant voice. “I 
don’t want to deceive your mother, but I understand 
young people. They generally confide in me. I think 
every girl should marry, although of course nowadays it’s 
not so simple as it was—fewer men, and such strange 
ideas! All this work for women, for instance. So wrong, 
for young mothers.” She pulled herself up, aware that 
she was encroaching on delicate ground. “But I always 
say that parents should look ahead and think of the days 
when they’re gone. I encouraged my two girls to marry, 
and I hope Elsie will do the same.” 

“I should think your daughters have been happy?” 


YOUTH WINS 


117 

Joceline spoke impulsively. “Mother’s—different. But 
then, of course, she’s much older than you, and I’m the 
only one left to her.” She glanced at her wrist-watch and 
rose to her feet. “I must fly! She’ll be returning from 
her bath. You stay and talk to Oliver.” 

“Well, see her as far as the end of the bushes,” Mrs. 
Bickersteth ordered the young man. “I’ll wait here till 
you come back.” She smiled, in her element. She was 
not altogether misled by Trench’s tactful explanation. 
Lovers revelled in secrecy. It was quite natural. Still, 
they had told her first. “Dear children,” she said to her¬ 
self. 

She had little compassion for Mrs. Verney—that su¬ 
preme egoist. There would be a hard battle before them, 
and Joceline might lose her money. 

Trench referred to this when he returned. He drew up 
the sack and squatted on it, facing his companion, who 
looked, with her spreading skirts and her sanguine coun¬ 
tenance, like one of those weighted manikins which rock, 
but immediately find their balance. There was something 
immovable about her, British and reassuring, as though 
she had weathered many storms. Joceline had christened 
her: “The Dreadnought.” She lay, watchful, in calm 
waters, but fully prepared to unmask her guns in defence 
of the younger generation. 

“About Mrs. Verney,” Trench resumed. “It’s going to 
be a fight, you know, between her influence and mine. 
And she isn’t scrupulous in her weapons. She told you a 
lie the other day about that affair with Scrope. I was 
quite right when I said that she was at the bottom of it.” 
He gave his listener the true version and watched her in- 


n8 


YOUTH WINS 


dignation grow. “She makes her health the excuse, but 
it’s the money she’s after! Of course it’s difficult for me, 
as I can’t say this to Joceline. She’s loyal, on the main 
points, and I have to go jolly careful. I really think the 
best plan,” he cried, with a touch of recklessness, “would 
be to run away with her!” 

“Why not?” Mrs. Bickersteth sounded eager. What 
a romance? And the mother deserved it! “You could 
both travel with me to Paris when I leave here, and 
then—” She stopped, pensive. “If it comes to that, I’ll 
give up the week with Richard—he was never really keen 
on it—and we’ll go straight through to London. Adela 
would put me up, and Joceline too—it would make things 
quite proper—and you could be married at once and sail 
for California. Have your honeymoon on board! Yes, 
it wouldn’t be rough at this season.” She paused, for 
Trench was laughing. “You’re an ungrateful young 
man! ” But she smiled. 

“I’m sure not. It was the pace you were setting. Seri¬ 
ously, though”—his face grew grave—“I don’t know how 
to act. What I’d prefer is to have things out with Mrs. 
Verney. If she withholds her consent, then we’ll get 
married without it. But Joceline’s so afraid.” A line 
showed between his eyebrows. “I can’t quite fathom it. 
It’s not the money. That I’ll swear! She’s content to be 
a poor man’s wife. It’s something else, and I don’t like 
to press her. I wonder if you could get her to tell you?” 

“I’ll try.” Mrs. Bickersteth’s face changed and she 
held out her plump hands. “Help me up? I’m getting 
cramp!” 

They parted at the foot of the steps. Mrs. Bickersteth 


YOUTH WINS 


119 

glanced at her balcony. Empty! She sighed. She was 
longing to pour it all out to Piper, who would never 
breathe a word of it. But in the old nurse’s present 
mood, she might just as well talk to the wall for any re¬ 
sponse she would get. Mrs. Bickersteth felt both in¬ 
jured and puzzled. She had been so kind —said nothing, 
except: “Well, I’ll forgive you, Piper. It isn’t often 
you're late!” 

But this was precisely Piper’s grievance. She had had 
it all so well planned, by the time she had parted her grey 
hair and screwed it into the knob behind. Her mistress 
would speak sharply. Then she would say, with dignity: 
“I know how it happened, ma’am. I was working until 
late last night at the ladders you made in your new stock¬ 
ings, with the black so trying to my eyes. I hardly got a 
wink of sleep.” And, injured: “It shan’t occur again, 
ma’am.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth would look repentant and probably 
pat Piper’s shoulder. Now, of course, she sailed about 
with one of her “angelic airs,” putting Piper in the 
wrong! It wasn’t fair. Not after all these years. Well, 
there was no moth in the furs and she would work until 
she dropped! But she wouldn’t forget it in a hurry. 

Mrs. Bickersteth could not divine this. She put it down 
to Piper’s age and decided to be kinder than ever as she 
panted up the steps. She passed indoors and was just 
in time to see Mrs. Verney descend from the bus, assisted 
by Joceline. The old lady was in a good humour. 

“Good morning!” She waved her hand. “You’re back 
before me.” 

“I didn’t go,” Mrs. Bickersteth explained. “I’m afraid 


120 


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I overslept myself.” For she was loyal where she loved. 

“That’s gadding about at night,” Mrs. Verney teased 
her gaily. “I shall have to tell your doctor! Would you 
care to have tea with us this afternoon?” She checked 
herself. “No, I’d forgotten! I’m driving with Lady 
Carnedin and we may be late. Better say to-morrow.” 
She stepped into the lift, her burnous drawn around her, 
showing her dainty little feet. 

Mrs. Bickersteth got in too, followed by Joceline. 

“And what are you doing?” she asked the girl. “Will 
you come for a drive with me? I’ve only a one-horse 
shay, still it’s very comfortable.” 

“Yes, take her,” said Mrs. Verney. “The air will do 
her good. Though she’s looking more herself lately. 
Don’t you think so?” Her shrewd, black eyes lingered 
on her daughter’s face. “You’ve quite a colour, darling.” 

“I ran up the steps to meet you.” 

“Oh, you were in the garden below?” 

“With me,” said Mrs. Bickersteth, smiling. “I don’t 
often walk so early, but it was such a lovely morning. 
Now I must write my letters home.” As she billowed 
along the passage, “I did that rather neatly,” she thought. 

Reaching her room, she found Piper rearranging the 
linen drawer. She stood up, straight as a grenadier. 

“Busy?” Her mistress smiled, though her heart sank 
when she saw the thin line of Piper’s mouth. “I have 
some exciting news. Mr. Trench and Miss Verney are 
engaged!” 

“Yes’m?” Piper’s face was blank. “Is there anything 
you require, ma’am?” 

“No.” Mrs. Bickersteth turned away. 


YOUTH WINS 


121 


Piper flapped out and closed the door with the mini¬ 
mum of noise. A moment later she tapped. 

“Come in!” Her mistress felt hopeful. 

“I was going to ask, ma’am, if you could spare me this 
afternoon? Lady Carnedin’s maid is off duty”—this with 
bitter emphasis—“and she wants me to go for a walk. 
And not feeling over-well—” She paused. 

Mrs. Bickersteth rose to the bait. 

“Oh, Piper, you’re not ill, are you?” 

“No, ma’am, but I didn’t sleep.” 

Out it came, the bottled-up explanation! 

Five minutes later, Piper was sitting on the edge of a 
chair—to show her respect—listening to her mistress’ 
story, her little red eyes alight with disgust at Mrs. Ver- 
ney’s behaviour. 

“She’s double,” said Piper. “I always thought so, 
“I’m sorry for the poor young lady. We could make the 
cake, ma’am, at home. Cook’s clever with the icing.” 

“So we could.” Mrs. Bickersteth beamed. 

It was dark on the terrace that night and the hotel 
guests did not linger after the usual promenade. Trench 
and his fellow-conspirator had it securely to themselves 

From the trees that fringed the Race-course came the* 
melancholy sound of a solitary screech-owl. Mrs. Bicker- 
steth sighed, affected by the mystery of the warm silence 
and her non-success that afternoon. Joceline had been 1 , 
very sweet, yet her elderly friend had “got no further”— 
so she confessed to Trench. 

“She’s very dignified for her age. I didn’t like to ques¬ 
tion her. But one thing’s plain: she’s devoted to you.” 


-122 


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*‘But I want to get a move on! ” Trench was impatient. 
**1 don’t believe Mrs. Verney has anything really wrong 
with her. My mother died of angina, but from all Joce- 
line tells me Mrs. Verney shows no symptoms of it. Her 
case seems baffling to the doctors. They don’t admit any 
dangerous trouble. From all accounts, it’s a gouty heart, 
or else a chronic weakness. No disease. If you ask me, I 
think she finds it pretty useful! I don’t want to be hard, 
you know. But I don’t trust Mrs. Verney any!” 

“Nor I,” Mrs. Bickersteth concurred. She added 
sagely, “Time will prove.” 

“But I can’t afford to wait for Time.” Trench frowned 
through the darkness. “I’ve got to get busy and settle 
matters. It’s not fair on my partners. There’s another 
thing that worries me too.” He paused uncertainly. 

“Tell me?” came to him in the comfortable voice. 

Trench yielded to it. 

“Well, I may be imagining, but it seems queer that Joce- 
line, who speaks of Scrope quite frankly, never mentions 
that other man. You’d think, to hear her talk, that after 
her illness she settled down to be maid-companion to her 
mother and gave up all thought of marriage—that no one 
else ever wanted her! And she’s so open, otherwise.” He 
stirred restlessly in his chair. “For instance, about her 
money. She doesn’t like that sacrifice, because she knows 
we could do with it, and it seems unjust—not at all what 
her father contemplated. He added this last codicil to 
his will before he went off on a tour round the Eastern 
Counties in connection with Remounts. He expected her 
to marry Scrope, but at that time we were paying a heavy 
price at the Front, and Mrs. Verney pointed out that if 


YOUTH WINS 


123 


Scrope were killed, there might be trouble. As it hap¬ 
pened, a neighbour’s daughter had made a most unfortu¬ 
nate match with an officer outside her class and in every 
way unsuitable. Mrs. Verney pointed out that the War 
was upsetting old traditions and she wanted to protect 
her daughter if anything happened to Mr. Verney. Un¬ 
luckily, he gave in to her.” 

A little silence followed his speech. Mrs. Bickersteth 
was puzzled. 

“There’s that owl again,” she murmured. “I wish it 
wouldn’t. It makes me feel creepy.” 

“Damn the owl!” said Trench under his breath. 

“I’m thinking, my dear.” She patted his arm. “About 
Howard, it may be that Joceline is ashamed to tell you. 
You see, Mrs. Verney might have been right in that in¬ 
stance, and no girl likes to confess she’s been thrown over. 
What was her illness?” She caught at the point. 

“A nervous breakdown. I don’t wonder! She’d 
chucked Scrope, for her mother’s sake, on the top of her 
grief about her father, and then came Mrs. Verney’s ill¬ 
ness. It began with septic influenza, and Joceline nursed 
her through it. Then the old lady developed acute rheuma¬ 
tism and the doctor ordered her daily massage. Not easy 
to get in a country place when every nurse was wanted in 
the crowded hospitals. So they came up to London for 
two months. Mrs. Verney had treatment and Joceline 
took a course in massage. As usual, everything fell on 
her! When Mrs. Verney was over it, Joceline collapsed. 
She was very bad and it seems to me that this was the 
time when her mother got a hold on her”—he scowled— 
“and never let go!” 


124 


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“Probably.” Mrs. Bickersteth nodded. “I’ve heard of 
cases like that. With nurses who take advantage of the 
patients’ dependence on themselves. If they’re clever they 
sway the invalids’ minds. Look at all the things you 
read in the papers about old men who leave their money 
to nurses or servants, ignoring their own families. That’s 
influence, when the mind is weakened by perpetual suf¬ 
fering. Bad influence.” She sniffed, and added in her 
vague way, “Mrs. Verney’s very extravagant.” 

They seemed to be talking in a circle and arriving at 
no conclusion. Said Trench at last: 

“Well, I promised Joceline a week and that’s up in 
three days’ time. Then I shall act. If Mrs. Verney with¬ 
holds her consent, I shall make my plans and stick to 
them. She’ll have to give me a good reason for my un¬ 
suitability. I can afford to keep a wife and offer her a good 
home in an idyllic climate. I mayn’t be”—he smiled— 
“ ‘County,’ but my father was a gentleman and I’ve had 
a first-class education. I’m not going to be trodden upon, 
as if I were out for Joceline’s money! I know the condi¬ 
tions of the will. And I mean to marry her.” 

“That’s right. I’ll help you too.” Mrs. Bickersteth 
reverted in detail to the plan discussed with Piper. 

Trench listened, touched but amused. 

*‘I wish you were her mother,” he said. “Would you 
Lave me as a son-in-law?” 

“I would.” She paused. “I’ve never told you, but you 
remind me, at times, of my dear boy who was killed.” 

Sorrow had crept into her voice. Trench’s hand went 
out and covered hers. 

“Hard luck. Your only son?” 


YOUTH WINS 


125 


She nodded. 

“It made such a difference. All these years we’ve 
planned for him, kept up the place and looked forward to 
his living there when we’d gone. It’s been rather a strug¬ 
gle too, with the girls’ education and all the repairs and 
taxes.” Suddenly she found herself asking the young 
man’s advice about Elsie. 

He gave it without hesitation. 

“If you can manage it,” he said, “I think she ought to 
have the chance. It shows grit, her wanting it, and, after 
all, it’s her own life. She’ll be happier with some occupa¬ 
tion. Also, it seems to me that if she can make it pay it’s 
the right solution in these times. I’ve never really under¬ 
stood the trouble about the landed gentry. If they’re so 
hard-up, why don’t they work?” 

“Ah!” Mrs. Bickersteth snorted. “You’ve been read¬ 
ing some of these modern novels. Written from the out¬ 
side”—she emphasized the word—“or perhaps by some 
woman who has stayed once in a good country house and 
has found herself neglected! I don’t know why they 
should always attack us? It isn’t fair. We do work. 
Look at my husband, for instance. He manages the whole 
of the place, is his own agent and always busy, from morn¬ 
ing till night. And he’s loved and respected for it. I’m 
sick of reading these present-day books of violent, 
drunken squires, who use the most projane language and 
live in idle luxury, with the roofs rotting off their farms! 
Their wives too, with ‘chiselled features’ and coats-of- 
arms on their hand-bags, who are always so rude to the 
poor!” She paused, gasping for breath. “What do these 
authors know of the facts? The endless economies, self- 


126 


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denial and financial anxiety? The feeling that every stick 
and stone is sacred, to hand on to the children.” 

Trench looked dubious. 

“But isn’t it handing on a burden? Wouldn’t they be 
better—free?” 

“Do they want to be free?” she retorted. “Don’t they 
love the place as much as we do? Look at the outcry 
that’s raised when a farm is sold over the farmer’s head— 
the house where his grandparents have lived? Isn’t it 
the same with us? It’s as much home as the smallest cot¬ 
tage belonging to a labourer; it’s filled with precious 
memories. But the old order’s dying out under the bur¬ 
den of taxation. And I’ll tell you one thing: the new 
landlord isn’t liked in the countryside—those profiteers 
and rich tradesmen who are buying up old estates. They 
haven’t had the proper training, like our sons. They may 
mean well, but they don’t understand the tenantry. They 
ride rough-shod over old customs and force reforms down 
the cottager’s throats. We may be shabby, but we be¬ 
long, like the old oaks. You may say ‘What’s in a name?’ 
and I’m not clever enough to explain it. Still it stands 
for something in this country—a sense of protection and 
charity. Though, of course, there are bad squires— 
there are black sheep in every class—but why make them 
the rule and not the exception? It isn’t just.” 

“No,” Trench spoke thoughtfully. “If the sons like it, 
it’s their job. But what about the daughters? I was 
thinking,” he added, “of Lady Thring and of something 
you told me about her.” 

He heard Mrs. Bickersteth move in the darkness. 


YOUTH WINS 


127 

“Well, that was just a hard case. Besides, she wasn’t 
forced to marry.” 

“Did she do it from personal ambition? For her own 
sake?” 

“Certainly not.” Mrs. Bickersteth sounded indignant. 
“Though she liked him.” 

“ ‘Liking’ isn’t enough. Did she do it for her family?” 

“Partly.” 

“Well, there you are! Was it worth the sacrifice?” 

Mrs. Bickersteth sighed and remained silent. 

“In the early centuries,” said Trench, “unwanted girls 
went into convents. Then came the Reformation, and 
the only thing open to them was marriage. I mean, of 
course, in your class. Later on they had a shot at being 
governesses or companions. But now they stand a bet¬ 
ter chance. They can work” His voice vibrated. 

Mrs. Bickersteth leaped to the conclusion. 

“So you think I ought to give in to Elsie?” 

Back came the young man’s answer: 

“I do. She has a right to choose. The right denied 
to Joceline. She wanted to work and her mother took 
away her allowance—made escape impossible to a girl 
brought up as she had been. That’s what Tradition’s 
done for herl” 

“You’re very hard,” mused the elderly lady. “But I’ve 
noticed that particularly in the present-day young people. 
The War has upset everything.” 

“Well, we’ve been through it,” said Trench grimly. 
“It’s been a young people’s war.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


O N Sunday it rained; in the soft, continuous fashion 
that suggests the tears and laughter of Spring. 
Mrs. Bickersteth had a secret conviction that it 
ought not to rain abroad, where, at least, one expected a 
dry climate. At Piper’s suggestion, she wore a shiny 
mackintosh. It made her look like a child’s balloon! 

She found Mrs. Verney, snugly hiding in her creamy 
burnous, in the usual corner of the hotel omnibus. Joce- 
line stood under the porch and waved her hand to the 
pair as that vehicle lumbered off. The clouds hung low 
over the woods, and in the air was the sweet smell of the 
grateful soil and thirsty leaves, with a sense of rising sap, 
indescribably youthful, that stirred her blood. She won¬ 
dered where she would find Trench. No walk to-day, but 
some quiet corner in which they could whisper, undis¬ 
turbed. 

As she turned back through the lounge, she heard the 
notes of a piano; then a man’s voice, untrained, but mel¬ 
low, in harmony with the early hour and the freshness of 
the garden. It issued from the little salon , a typical 
French retreat, with walnut chairs lining the walls and a 
forbidding sofa, an escritoire with massive ink-pot, thin 
and smudgy blotting-paper, some modern imitation 
bronzes and a notice: “It is forbidden to smoke.” 

Here, in the evenings, a few old ladies would collect 
and exchange reminiscences over knitting and embroidery, 
with windows and door tight-closed. 

128 


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129 


At present the latter was ajar. Joceline peeped through 
the opening and smiled to see Trench, firmly camped on 
the music-stool, eyes fixed on his long hands as he wrestled 
with the accompaniment. 

She stole in, bent over him and kissed the top of his 
head. 

“You!” He swung round and caught her to him. 
“That’s good!” He laughed at her. “Isn’t it a top-hole 
day?” 

“Yes.” She understood his mood. “What are you sing¬ 
ing? Do go on.” 

“I can’t sing,” he protested. “I can only make a noise.” 

“Well, make it ; then. No, not again”—she stepped 
back, evading him—“not until you’ve sung to me!” and 
took up a listening position at the side of the piano, a 
slim arm resting on the top. 

“All right. It’s a song that suggests you. Us” he cor¬ 
rected and struck a chord. 

“ T am building a House of Love, 

With a door of oak and studded leather 
Where no man may enter ever; 

And there is a High Tower above, 

With windows wide open to the sky 

And the shift and shimmer of swallows’ wings 

That the Spring brings, the Spring brings— 

So there I and my dear can lie. 

We’ll watch the tree-tops and, on high, 

Ship after ship, the Clouds sail past 
With golden pennon and rain-washed mast; 

We’ll laugh when the Wind blows the blossom by, 


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For nobody, nobody can look in 
And see us there, close together— 

No Old Woman, soured by the weather, 

To shake her head and call it SinF ” 

Joceline smiled, but her eyes were tender. 

“I wonder if we shall get like that when we’re old— 
impatient of youth and youth’s follies?” 

“Never! I shan’t let you. We shall be lovers still and 
lock the door of our tower.” 

“Is there a tower in your house?” 

“No, but we’ll build one. Something like the Tour de 
Bonvouloir. I must take you there some day.” 

She nodded. She did not tell him that she knew it, had 
often driven past with her mother. Beneath his simplic¬ 
ity and strength, there was something child-like in her 
lover which appealed to her and called for her womanly 
protection. Such a man, yet such a boy! Aware of his 
ardent glance, she looked away, slightly troubled. The 
future seemed so insecure. 

Her eyes fell on some sheets of music, stained by time, 
on the piano, and she gathered up the topmost fragment. 
She examined the cover, with its ornate inscription: Rhap- 
sodie, a Quatre Mains. 

“Let’s rhapsodize with four hands? You get a chair. 
What fun!” 

“I’m not very good at reading,” he warned her, but, 
rejoicing in her mood, obeyed. She seemed unusually 
happy to-day. 

They settled themselves, propped up the worn sheets, 
and plodded on, to the final triumphant chord. 


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131 

“Isn’t it hideous?” Joceline laughed. “But the French 
have a passion for duets. It’s part of the training of a 
jerne fille bien ileviel We used to do this at the Con¬ 
vent, on Sunday afternoons, when it rained and we 
couldn’t get out.” 

“The Convent?” He was surprised. “You’re not a 
Catholic?” 

“Not a Roman Catholic,” she corrected. “But I was 
educated in Paris. The convent there was mother’s idea. 
She thought it a good thing for a girl to be sent out of 
England and to mix with other nations. Her own mother 
was French, you see. Besides”—her eyes twinkled—“I 
believe now it was an excuse for her flying visits abroad. 
My father hated crossing the Channel. He was wrapped 
up in our country life, very keen on hunting and shooting. 
But mother had no tastes that way, so she used to escape 
and come to me.” 

All this was news to the man. 

“Partly French? I might have guessed it. She speaks 
the language so fluently. Did you like the Convent?” he 
asked her. 

“I loved it! Of course not in every way—too many 
rules and restrictions. Still, looking back, those seem the 
happiest years of my life.” 

“Until now, I hope?” His face was wistful. 

“Until now,” she answered gravely. 

“Come and tell me all about it. Do you think we dare 
try that sofa? It looks so—respectable! As if it would 
slap me if I kissed you.” 

“We’ll risk it!” She laughed, and they sat down, 
Trench’s arm round her shoulder. 


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He had the curious impression that this convent ex¬ 
perience held the thread of one of his many problems con¬ 
cerning the girl’s reticence. He led her on to talk of her 
schooldays and realized, for the first time, her deep in¬ 
terest in religion. Through the disjointed story one 
name cropped up persistently: that of a Mary Gringold 
who had been her chosen friend. 

“She’s become a nun,” Joceline added. “I’m hoping to 
see her during the week we stay in Paris on our return.” 

Trench smiled, but let this pass. 

“A nun? Sounds rather depressing to me. I mean, 
at any rate, in one’s youth.” 

“Oh, but she wasn’t!” Joceline looked up, her blue 
eyes full of dreams. “We had lovely times together. She 
was always happy and smiling, overflowing with energy! 
That last summer we spent at the Convent—I stayed there 
for the holidays—we used to have all sorts of fun. Her 
brother came over. She had no father, and Howard was 
sixteen years her senior, so he was allowed to take us 
about.” 

Trench had barely repressed a start, but he caught him¬ 
self in hand again. 

“That must have been fine.” He steadied his voice. 
“I shouldn’t think he approved of her taking the veil?” 
he suggested. 

“Howard? No, he was disappointed. He wanted her 
to keep house for him. He was a Commissioner in 
Uganda.” As though that name had been a signpost 
pointing the way to danger, she stiffened and went on 
quickly, “You mustn’t think all nuns are sad. It’s quite 


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133 

the contrary. I’ve sometimes thought,” she admitted, “of 
becoming one myself.” 

“But you’d have to change your religion?” He was 
startled in earnest. “You wouldn’t do that?” 

“Why not?” Into her face had stolen a new expres¬ 
sion, wistful and luminous. “I don’t think mother would 
mind. Her people were Roman Catholics—she reverted 
when she married my father—so I suppose it’s in the 
blood. And sometimes, it seems to me that there’s a 
force”—she hesitated—“a peace in the older Faith, which 
is wanting in ours-. More certainty. Something to lean 
on when troubles can’t be shared.” 

Now she was in the mood he desired, lulled from sus¬ 
picion. Trench struck. 

“Well, I always think that religion is every one’s indi¬ 
vidual concern. But I can understand the brother being 
sore when he lost his sister. Do you ever see him now?” 
he asked. 

“No, not since—” She pulled herself up. Again he 
saw the shadow of fear dim her spontaneity. 

“Since what?” Ruthlessly, he pressed her. He meant 
to lay this ghost between them. 

“Since he stayed with us in Norfolk.” 

His heart sank. She was not going to tell him. 

She rose to her feet restlessly. 

“I can’t stand this sofa any longer! Let’s have some 
more music? Fll play you something now.” 

Helplessly, Trench watched her as her delicate fingers 
pressed the notes. He barely heard them. All his mind 
was concentrated on his trouble. Why could she not be 


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honest with him? That golden head looked so aloof on 
her slim neck; there was pride in the line, which of all 
others betrays youth, running cleanly from ear to chin. 
She seemed unapproachable and mysterious. 

As the music ceased, he crossed the room and bent 
down over her, his hands resting on her shoulders. 

“Joceline,” he asked, “y° u do love me? You’re quite 
sure?” His voice shook. 

“Why, Oliver!” She was amazed. “How can you 
doubt it? What have I done?” 

“Nothing. I—just wanted to know.” 

She lifted her face, touched to the quick. 

“Like this,” she murmured, and gave him her lips. 

So absorbed were they that neither noticed the door on 
their right silently open. For a moment a shrouded figure 
stood there. Under the creamy hood, a pair of dark eyes 
were darting a malignant, startled glance at the pair. 

Joceline gave a fluttering sigh. The spring day seemed 
overpowering. Their eyes met. In each was the ques¬ 
tion: “Why wait? Youth is so short.” 

The rain came whispering against the windows. It 
drowned the faint sound of the closing door. 

“When?” he breathed, and saw her delicate mouth 
quiver as he caught her reply: 

“Soon . . .” 

“To-morrow?” he asked absurdly, filled with the won¬ 
der of the moment. 

“To-morrow.” Her eyes closed; her head was heavy 
on his shoulder. Suddenly she started up. “Oh, Oliver, 
I’d forgotten mother! I must go—she’ll be back from 
her bath.” 


YOUTH WINS 


i 35 

“Damn!” He ground his heel into the parquet. “Is 
she always to come between us?” 

“No.” She laid a hand on his arm; her blue eyes were 
beseeching. “But not to-day—don’t tell her to-day? I 
can’t bear that you should spoil it.” 

“Spoil what?” 

“This—our golden hour.’ ” She remembered Mrs. 
Bickersteth and forced a smile, but her eyes were fright¬ 
ened. “You promised me a week!” 

“Very well.” He set his teeth. 

She moved away. At the door she turned and looked 
back. 

“It’s for your sake too,” she told him with a note of 
despair. 

“Why?” He started after her, heard voices in the 
lounge and, with an effort, checked himself. “Oh, I give 
it up!” he cried. 

Meanwhile Joceline was making her way swiftly to the 
front door. The omnibus, empty, stood outside, waiting 
for fresh passengers. She ran back to the lift. 

“Quick!” she said to the man. 

Reaching her mother’s door, she tapped. 

“Entrez!” 

Nerving herself, Joceline turned the handle. 

“Oh, there you are!” Mrs. Verney smiled at her. “I 
was back before my time. What a day! But you should 
have seen our dear Mrs. Bickersteth. She looked like a 
seal coming out of the water! In one of those terrible 
oil-skin affairs. Now, darling, my dressing-gown.” 

Joceline inaudibly breathed: “Thank God!” 

She helped her mother to lie down. There were no 


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136 

questions asked to-day as to how the girl had spent the 
hour. Mrs. Verney seemed in her sweetest mood. 

“I think I’ll read,” she decided. a You can give me 
my Imitation of Christ. I always find that so soothing 
and one can’t go to church here. Although I’d planned for 
this afternoon to drive to Vespers at Tesse-la-Madeleine 
and hear that lovely music again.” She alluded to the 
services held in the Parish Church which, owing to the 
fine organ, attracted not only the residents but profes¬ 
sionals, visiting the place, who frequently sang in the 
choir. “But it’s too wet,” she decided. “We shall have 
to fall back on bridge. I wonder if Mrs. Bickersteth 
would care to join us? I had a letter yesterday from 
Angela Pulteney, telling me all about her. It’s Mr. Bick¬ 
ersteth who is Sir Archibald’s cousin. She was a Courte¬ 
nay—Lord Paignton’s people, the younger branch.” 

Off she went, on one of her favourite games of sorting 
the many threads which, inevitably, are knotted together 
somewhere, in the centuries, between ancient families. 

Joceline stood, leaning on the lower rail of the bed. 
Full well she knew that her lover held no place in this 
category. He was descended from Yeoman stock, on both 
sides—hardier stock, well-called the “back-bone of 
Britain.” Some instinct told her that this was what, in 
truth, attracted her to him: the vigour and initiative so 
often lacking in a strain weakened by intermarriage. But 
to these was allied natural refinement. There was none 
of the slovenliness, dulled intellect and narrow outlook 
which marks a certain country type closely linked to the 
soil. His father had been well-educated and Trench had 
moved among gentlepeople, both at school and at college, 


YOUTH WINS 


137 

had travelled and enlarged his mind. Above all, learnt 
control, in the bitter discipline of the trenches. 

Watching the old aristocrat, Joceline realized that 
Oliver was her road of escape into a kinder, healthier life. 
For her mother was an extreme type, the result of two 
different strains of blood, but at heart more French than 
British. There was tyranny in her veins: that fatal love 
of power, of contempt for the bourgeoisie and for the class 
then treated as serfs, which had sent her ancestors to the 
tumbrel in the bloody days of Danton. She would never 
give her consent to Joceline’s marriage with Oliver Trench. 

But could she prevent it? The girl’s heart sank. Was 
there to be another—failure! 

She became aware that her mother had paused. 

“Yes?” She used the first cue to hand. 

Mrs. Verney nodded. 

“We’ll ask her at lunch. Then we can easily get a 
fourth. The French have no prejudices about playing 
cards on the Sabbath. They get their religion over early 
and then feel they’re free for amusement. So sensible!” 
She smiled at her daughter. “For, after all, it’s a day 
of rest, and rest is not idleness. Or the British idea of a 
heavy meal, followed by a state of coma. Where’s my 
dear a Kempis?” She took the book in its ancient bind¬ 
ing. It had belonged to her grandfather and inside was 
a faded plate with a coat-of-arms famous in French his¬ 
tory. “Now, dear child, give me a kiss—I shan’t want 
you until 11.00.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth found Trench unusually silent at 
lunch. She consoled herself with the study of the gay 


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138 

crowd around her. As the season advanced, visitors un¬ 
connected with the cure came to Bagnoles, enjoying the 
tennis and other distractions. It was getting quite a fash¬ 
ionable resort among wealthy Parisians. And how won¬ 
derfully they wore their clothes, with an unconscious air 
that had nothing suggestive of “Sunday best!” The ma¬ 
jority of the women were plain when you looked “right 
into” their faces, yet somehow, fascinating. 

“They’re certainly womanly,” she thought—the nearest 
she could get to the secret. 

Ices to-day! She loved ices, although they sometimes 
made her teeth ache. There were no roses without thorns, 
she decided philosophically, as a pain darted through her 
jaw. It was rheumatic weather too. 

“It gets into my hones,” she told Trench confidentially, 
and was surprised at the pain in his eyes as they turned 
to her face. “I expect you are feeling it?” 

“I?” He smiled, forgetting his excuse for taking the 
cure. “I like rain. It lays the dust. I’m going for a 
tramp after lunch.” 

“With Sir Raphael?” 

“No, alone. I must have some exercise.” 

But this plan was to be discarded. When they left the 
hot room, Mrs. Bickersteth, sailing through the lounge, 
was arrested by Mrs. Verney with the invitation to bridge. 

For a moment, the younger woman hesitated. It was 
tempting, with nothing else to do, but against the tenets 
of Torlish Manor, which “kept” the Sabbath Day. Then 
she remembered she was in France! There was no ques¬ 
tion here of setting a good example to her servants and 
family. 


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139 

“I should enjoy it,” she responded, “though I’m not a 
very great player. My husband says I over-call!” 

“All husbands say that.” Mrs. Verney smiled. One 
hand on her daughter’s arm, she peered, bright-eyed, at 
the moving throng. “Now, who shall we have for a 
fourth? Let’s make it a British party and ask Mr. 
Trench to join us.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth drew in her breath sharply. She 
glanced quickly at Joceline. Every trace of colour had 
drained from her face. For a moment she looked on the 
verge of fainting. Then she caught herself in hand. 

“I shouldn’t think he’d care about it. A man doesn’t 
mind the rain. He’ll probably be going out.” 

“Still, perhaps he’ll have a rubber first.” 

The old lady’s voice was imperious. She slipped the 
hand from its support and tripped across to the window 
where Trench stood, gloomily watching the clouds veil the 
slopes of the hills. 

“My dear”—Mrs. Bickersteth was thrilled—“she’s 
coming round! Isn't that nice?” 

Joceline did not answer. She was trying to catch her 
lover’s eye, an impossible feat, owing to the people drift¬ 
ing in between them. All too soon, Mrs. Verney returned, 
Trench obediently in her wake. 

“I’ve settled it!” Her hands fluttered with one of her 
foreign gestures. “This table, I think. Now, the cards? 
Thank you, child.” She spread them fan-wise on the 
cloth. “We’ll cut for partners.” 

They did so, Mrs. Bickersteth eaten up with curiosity. 
What was the meaning of it all? And why should the 
girl looked stunned? 


140 


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Trench was equally mystified. He turned up the curse 
of Scotland. 

“You and I,” he said to Joceline. 

“Age versus Youth,” Mrs. Verney declared, and added 
suavely, “Though that’s unfair to my partner. I was 
thinking of myself. Now, then!” She settled herself, 
with a rustle of taffeta skirts. 

To-day she was dressed in black, which Mrs. Bicker- 
steth approved. Her own religion suggested black; she 
was fond of the Litany and of sermons that “bring the 
truth home.” It did one good to be roused and remember 
one’s duty to one’s neighbour. All this flashed through 
her mind as she dealt the cards, very slowly, careful not 
to turn up the corners. 

Mrs. Verney watched her impatiently. Joceline’s eyes 
were glued to the table. The silence seemed oppres¬ 
sive. 

“It will clear later, I think,” said Trench. He was 
uncertain of his ground. 

“Not before the third rubber!” Mrs. Verney was al¬ 
most coquettish as she smiled at the young man. “Now, 
Joceline, wake up!” She gathered her own cards together 
and sorted them dexterously. 

Mrs. Bickersteth had no such skill. At length she 
looked up. 

“One Diamond,” she said, with an air of ponderous de¬ 
cision. 

“One Heart.” Trench stole a glance at the girl, pale 
and rigid, facing him. 

“One No Trumps,” Mrs. Verney proclaimed. 

It was left at that. Joceline led a nine of hearts and 


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141 

Mrs. Bickersteth, relieved, proceeded to lay down her 
hand. 

There were six diamonds to a Queen! 

“But I thought you said Diamonds?” Mrs. Verney’s 
eye-brows were raised. 

“One.” Mrs. Bickersteth was unmoved. “Oh, by the 
way, what are we playing?” 

“We usually play five francs a hundred. And with the 
exchange as it is—” Mrs. Verney playfully shrugged her 
shoulders. “But if you’d prefer any other stake?” 

“Oh, no.” Her partner straightened her back. She 
was not going to be patronized. She didn’t mind losing 
money, but on Sunday five francs seemed slightly pro¬ 
fane. Still, she must think of the young people and make 
it a pleasant game. “I can take that!” She nodded, 
pleased. 

She was annoyed when Mrs. Verney picked out the ten 
of hearts instead of that nice, fat ace. One of her own 
bridge mottoes was: “Make a trick when you can.” 

The game proceeded, with Mrs. Verney—who had 
counted on diamonds—tight-lipped. She looked very 
old to-day, Trench thought. He wondered if Joceline’s 
love for him had checked, or rather diverted, the flow of 
vital force which she passed on to her parent. She would 
always give with both hands. It was her glory, and her 
peril. In this case it didn’t matter, for he made up the 
loss, with interest. It was strange how some people had 
the power of taking it out of you imperceptibly, leaving 
you drained, and often people with great charm. A 
dangerous trick when cultivated, closely allied to black 
magic, and known throughout the centuries, the ground- 


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work of ancient superstitions. It seemed to sap, not only 
the physical powers of the victim, but to undermine the 
will. Somehow, obscurely, he felt that it was going on 
now; that, before his eyes, Mrs. Verney was regaining 
her daughter. For why did Joceline look like that? 

At this moment the girl revoked. Trench guessed it too 
late and blamed himself for forgetting to put the usual 
question. It would not escape those shrewd, black eyes— 
he looked at his neighbour stealthily. Her triumph was 
well-hidden. Here was one who could guard a secret. 
She waited, until in the last round Joceline produced the 
thirteenth spade. 

Mrs. Verney pounced on it, with a pointed, almond- 
shaped nail. 

“Revoke! I knew I had counted correctly.” 

“Oh! ” The girl bit her lip. “I didn’t mean to. I never 
saw it!” 

“Exactly.” Mrs. Verney chuckled. “You shouldn’t 
dream at cards, darling.” 

“It was my fault,” said Trench, “I should have asked 
her.” 

“Don’t let’s exact it?” Mrs. Bickersteth was distressed. 
“So easy—any one might do it.” 

“Game!” Mrs. Verney ignored the remark. Her pen¬ 
cil bit into the scoring-board. “And I certainly never 
expected that!” A soft colour warmed her cheeks. 

“Those diamonds of yours!” she laughed across at her 
partner. Then her glance slipped to the man. “You’ll 
have to keep my daughter in order,” she told him airily. 

Trench wondered if there could be a hidden meaning 
in the remark. He looked back, defying her. 


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“I’m quite contented with my partner.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Joceline murmured. 

“You needn’t be. It’s my deal, I think.” 

After that he played the game for all he was worth. 
Mrs. Verney soon realized that, at cards, she had met 
her match. Mrs. Bickersteth sailed in troubled waters. 

“If only it would clear,” she thought, “and I could get 
out of this! I’d willingly risk rheumatism.” 

But the Earth was wrapped in wet winding-sheets, Mrs. 
Verney indefatigable. It had come to a battle between 
her and Trench. By some strange chance, he was always 
her opponent, backed up by Joceline. The girl herself 
had become infected by the man’s iron will. She had a 
superstitious feeling that whoever emerged the victor 
would win in the greater game. 

Mrs. Verney grew peevish. She had lost three rubbers 
in succession, handicapped by her partner and by Trench’s 
brilliant performance. 

“Let’s cut again! Or shall we have tea?” She threw 
up the sponge suddenly. 

Mrs. Bickersteth heartily acquiesced. 

“Tea, I think. I don’t know why, but bridge always 
makes me thirsty, and I get such cold feet.” 

Trench laughed. 

“I can sympathize! Still, it’s been very pleasant. I 
haven’t, played since I left the boat, and I’m fond of it.” 

“You should have told us,” said Mrs. Verney graciously. 
“But we haven’t seen much of you lately. I gathered 
from our friend here”—she smiled at Mrs. Bickersteth— 
“that you’d been exploring the country, with Sir Reuben 
—no Sir Raphael Thring.” She added lightly, “I never 


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can remember those names! Dear me, I’m quite 
cramped.” She tottered as she moved forward. Trench 
offered her his arm, for Joceline was wedged in by the 
table. Would she take it? She did, and leaned on it de¬ 
liberately. “Thanks. I’m getting a very old woman.” 

Trench felt bound to repudiate this. 

She glanced up sideways. 

“It’s only my limbs, mercifully. My brain is as keen 
as ever.” 

Was it a warning? Trench wondered. He saw her as 
far as the lift and left her in her daughter’s care. Then 
he rejoined Mrs. Bickersteth, who was dapping her face 
with her handkerchief. 

“That’s a wicked old woman!” She sounded hoarse. 
“I suppose I really oughtn’t to say so. It’s her hardness 
and her greed. But I’m glad you won. You deserved to 
—although I shall never understand why because I called 
Clubs she made it No Trumps. And seemed so injured 
about it too! I did it because I’d a Yarborough. Now” 
—she dropped her voice—“if you’ll come up quietly, I’ll 
give you a good cup of tea and we’ll talk things over. 
Piper’s there, so it’s quite proper.” 

He was only too willing to follow her. Piper welcomed 
him with a smile. How nice he looked in his blue serge 
suit, she thought; so “upstanding,” good boots, and the 
bright hair like “Master Dicky’s,” with the same straight, 
grey eyes. She hovered over him during tea, waiting for 
his second cup and worrying Mrs. Bickersteth who was 
longing to get him to herself. She risked offending Piper 
at last: 


YOUTH WINS 


i45 

“I think we’ve everything we want, thank you,” she 
said. 

Piper went. 

“Now!” said Mrs. Bickersteth. “What do you think it 
means?” 

“It has me beat! But I can tell that Joceline’s wor¬ 
ried.” 

“Well, / think”—she poured it out—“that Mrs. Verney 
means well. She’s seen how happy the girl’s looking and, 
although I don’t like her, I believe she’s really fond of 
her daughter. Some one’s been telling tales, she’s realized 
how it is between you and she wants to get to know you 
better. I don’t say she’ll give in at once. She’s far too 
fond of her money. You can tell that by the way she 
plays, and all that talk about Monte Carlo. I wonder”— 
her eyes widened—“if she’s a gambler? And Joceline 
knows it and is ashamed. Perhaps that’s it—debts!” 

“No.” Trench shook his head. “They’re well off, not 
short of money. Besides, who could have told her about 
us? We’ve always been so careful.” 

“My dear boy”—Mrs. Bickersteth smiled —“anybody 
might have caught you that day when I came on you in 
the garden. Love is blind. It’s the onlooker who sees 
most of the game. And you’re open by nature. Quite 
right too. I can’t stand sly and deceitful young people. 
Why, you told me almost at once.” Her face changed, 
became startled. “Oh, you don't think I let it out? I 
assure you, I’ve never breathed a word.” 

“I know you haven’t. She’s guessed. And now she’s 
out to stop it. She’s desperate too.” His face darkened. 


YOUTH WINS 


146 

“Did you see that Comtesse de Mesnil pause, whilst we 
were playing, near the table and the look that passed be¬ 
tween them? Mrs. Verney would never have asked me to 
join them—there, before the whole hotel—if she hadn’t 
had some deep motive. To a Frenchwoman it would seem 
as if Mrs. Verney had changed her opinion and reckoned 
me up as—suitable! It was so pointed after these weeks 
of studied indifference. And yet Joceline looked crushed. 
If she hurts her, I’ll—” He brought down his left fist, 
clenched, on his knee and very nearly upset his tea-cup. 

“Take care!” Mrs. Bickersteth had jumped. “But 
they wouldn’t break—they’re only enamel. Dear me, it 
is perplexing. I shall pray for you both to-night—six¬ 
pence a hundred is quite enough on a Sunday, to my 
mind.” Trench failed to follow this. “Perhaps I was 
wrong in playing at all. Still I lost—that should count. 
Did you see her rings? That diamond one. I hope she’ll 
leave it to Joceline.” She was tired and incoherent. 

Trench realized this and rose to his feet. 

“It’s stopped raining. I must get out. Thank you so 
much for all your kindness.” 

“I wish I could help you more—there! I nearly called 
you ‘Dicky.’ ” Her eyes filled. She held out her hand 
to him. Rather clumsily, he kissed it, feeling there was 
nothing to say. “It will all come right, Oliver.” 

But Trench was too worried to agree. 


CHAPTER IX 


M RS. BICKERSTETH came up to bed complain¬ 
ing of rheumatic pains. 

“It was the bridge,” she said to Piper. “Such a 
draught along the floor. I can’t think how Mrs. Verney 
stands it, and there she is, at it again! There can’t be 
much the matter with her.” She frowned. “I like a 
pleasant game, but her kind’s such a tax on the brain! 
It’s in my right knee to-night.” 

Piper, accustomed to take short cuts across her mis¬ 
tress’ conversation, briskly made a suggestion: 

“A good, hot bath, ma’am, with a spoonful of mustard 
in it? Not the sort they gives you here, stale-looking and 
no bite, but from the tin I brought with me. Colman’s.” 
She sighed. The very name roused a sudden longing for 
home. 

“Very well.” Mrs. Bickersteth sighed too. “It’s all 
right in good weather, but there’s no real comfort abroad, 
with curtains that don’t meet and these horrid slippery 
floors. Though the beds—” She paused. “Do you 
know, Nanna, that they rip them open, clean the contents, 
and make them up again every year?” 

“Not necessary,” said Piper tartly. A horrific vision of 
the result of this visit to Bagnoles: twenty mattresses laid 
waste in the shrouded bedrooms at Torlish Manor rose 
like a nightmare, before her. Though, perhaps, for the 
i47 


148 YOUTH WINS 

French —” She sneered. Still, they must lose a lot of 
’air.” 

It was rarely that she dropped an “H.” and Mrs. Bick- 
ersteth looked puzzled. 

“But it is to air them,” she insisted. 

“I meant the Aorse-/jair,” breathed Piper. 

Mrs. Bickersteth’s face went blank. 

“Of course! Stupid of me, but I’m worried about those 
two young people.” 

Had Trench been present, he might have divined what 
his friend had really meant when she talked of “belong¬ 
ing,” like the old oaks. For centuries past, from the days 
of youth, one rule had held among her kind—save for 
those “black sheep” dear to authors—that of a courtesy 
extended to those of a lower class far deeper than to her 
own. She had seen her own young brother thrashed for 
insolent conduct to a groom. Noblesse oblige was not an 
empty formula. It implied control, and reverence for 
those with fewer advantages; the true meaning of “gentle” 
birth, according to Mrs. Bickersteth’s creed. She could 
have whipped herself for her mistake. Poor old Nanna! 

“So clever of you to have brought the mustard,” she 
went on soothingly. “But then, you think of everything! ” 

Piper’s lined face relaxed. 

“I’ll go and see if the bathroom’s clear, if you’ll get 
ready, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth made her preparations, screwing her 
hair on the top of her head and covering it with a boudoir- 
cap rather like a Roman helmet. 

Presently Piper returned. 


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149 

“It’ll have to be the far bath. This one’s got a French¬ 
man in it.” 

“But how do you know it’s a man?” Mrs. Bickersteth 
was amused by the scorn in her voice. 

“I heard him, ma’am,” said Piper darkly. “Still, even 
the children here do it! I never allowed my children to be¬ 
have like that, I’m sure. You’d think they’d all got con¬ 
sumption! Now, ma’am. I’ve turned on the water.” 

The procession formed. Piper went first, bearing the 
sponges and soap in a dish. She looked like a Vestal 
Virgin, guarding the sacred flame. Mrs. Bickersteth, 
majestic, followed, in a toga of Imperial Purple. Her 
face, with no vestige of softening hair, was massive and 
oddly sexless, suggesting that of. some marble bust. So 
Caesar might have passed to his bath. 

To complete the august effect, she carried a sceptre in 
her hand: a round loofah, attached to a long wooden 
handle. It was destined to find that spot in her back 
which otherwise she “missed! ” Mrs. Bickersteth, through 
some early confusion, invariably called it “my toofah.” 

Piper carefully mixed the mustard and retired, with a 
last injunction from her mistress: 

“Watch for me coming out and see there’s no one 
about.” 

Soon she was soaking peacefully. Her thoughts turned 
to Torlish Monor. She had received a letter from Elsie 
that morning and it was still in her bag. She stretched 
out a wet arm, gingerly seized the former and extracted 
the envelope. Keeping them out of the reach of the 
water, she re-read the untidy pages: 


i5o 


YOUTH WINS 


Dearest Mater: 

I’m answering your letter to me and Father both together, 
because he’s rather busy to-day. The gale brought down that 
old elm in front of Bennett’s cottage, and it’s lying right 
across the lane. It smashed the fence and gave old Susan a 
nasty fright—but she’s better. I took her a bottle of port. 
That cheered the old girl up, though she wanted to lay it by 
for her funeral! I put a stop to that nonsense. Now about 
yours. 

Mrs. Bickersteth started. 

“Oh, my letter, she means.” She read on: 

Father and I can’t understand it. First you say we must 
“wait” and then that Father “must decide.” Then again that 
there’s “no hurry.” But there isl You don’t seem to under¬ 
stand how important it all is to me. The sooner I start work 
the better. Father’s been telling me all about the estate and 
how hard up we really are. Well, doesn’t that prove that I’m 
right? That we all ought to turn to. Winyard and Delme 
are here now and they quite agree with me. (The school 
closed on account of measles and Adela sent them to us.) 
Winyard is awfully keen. He wants to be a market-gardener 
and Delme—he’s only a kid, of course, but he’s got his head 
screwed on—hopes to learn motoring, so that he can drive a 
lorry and take Winyard’s green stuff, and my butter and eggs, 
etc., into Exeter by road. That will save the freight, you 
see? Then we’ve got an idea about the old mill—to grind 
our corn and the farmers’ ourselves. When Chrissy comes 
down I’m going to talk to her seriously. It’ll do Spencer good 
to work. I’d just love to see him a miller—then all his socks 
and ties would match! The flour would see to that! And 
what’s the good of his going to Eton and spending his holi- 


YOUTH WINS 


151 

days in visits to his London pals? He ought to be learning 
about the country , if he’s going to run the place when Uncle 
Henry pegs out. I get fed-up with him! 

Well, anyhow, you see the idea? Between the pack of us, 
we ought to put Torlish on its legs. Thank goodness, we 
haven’t got mortgages—Father’s been wise there. Though 
that’s why he let part of the shooting to that awful Sir Cecil 
Fownes. She’s taken to stopping Father now as he comes out 
of church, and it makes him furious, because of the servants 
getting out early on Sunday afternoons. He told her so once, 
and Lady Fownes said: “Oh? My servants do what I like,” 
and added, “I give them good money.” And she always winds 
up in the same way: “I’m such a busy woman, with all my 
Charities in town,” and reels off a string of names of people 
she sits with on Committees, beginning with Princess Mary! 

A pity she doesn’t stay in town! Winyard swears that he 
found her the other day watching a nuthatch in a tree and 
waiting for it to cuckool 

And Sir Cecil trots after her looking like a cocker spaniel, 
breathless with admiration. That puzzled me until I remem¬ 
bered it was his father who made the business. I’d sooner 
have known the old man. 

Well, now, to get back to mine. I know it means expense 
at first, but I shan’t want any frocks. I’m always happier 
in breeches, and there won’t be time for parties. Only I must 
let the College know. I’ve been awfully patient and I do 
think you might send me a wire. Do? You don’t know how 
I’m worrying! Love from 

Elsie. 

P.S. The new foal’s a beauty! Hope you’re better? 

“It’s ridiculous”—Mrs. Bickersteth sighed—“for those 
children to talk like that.” She put the letter, sticky with 


152 


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steam, on the chair by her side. “They seem to want to 
turn the place into a sort of Co-operative Store! Still, if 
the child’s fretting, a telegram might soothe her. But 
Richard shouldn’t be so weak. Piper can take it early to¬ 
morrow.” 

As she dried herself, she composed the message, cutting 
out all the words she could, for the sake of economy. 
Eventually satisfied, she donned her warm dressing-gown, 
found a pencil in her bag and wrote it, on Elsie’s envelope. 

It ran, addressed to her daughter: 

Cannot decide due thought but may hope love 

Mother. 

“And I think that’s kind,” she decided. “She means 
well, but of course she’s young, and these queer ideas are 
in the air.” Her mind turned to her new neighbours, the 
Fowneses. “It’s strange”—she addressed the loofah, as 
she squeezed the water out of it—“that they want to for¬ 
get their business, and my children want to start one?” 

She could find no answer to this riddle, though, nebu¬ 
lously, in her mind, rose a vague conviction that it didn’t 
matter what you did if you did it well and honestly. It 
was this pretence she couldn’t stand, the false shame, not 
of the founder, but of his heirs regarding the source of 
their affluence, and their contempt for those beneath them 
when they stood perched on their new heights. No wonder 
the shrewd peasantry, though willing to profit by employ¬ 
ment, noted this and christened them “upstarts.” She 
did not carry her philosophy far enough to realize that in 
this changed world, since the War, her own class most 
closely approached the true ideals of democracy. 


YOUTH WINS 


153 

She unlocked the door. No sign of Piper, but the 
passage was empty. She ventured forth. 

As she came near the lift, Joceline emerged from her 
mother’s room. She crossed the corridor, on uncertain 
steps and paused, a hand against the farther wall, as 
though her strength had given out. 

“My dear!” Mrs. Bickersteth hurried forward, for¬ 
getful of her appearance, for the girl’s face was ghastly. 
“Aren’t you feeling well? There—lean on me.” 

“It’s nothing. Just—a little faint.” 

Her voice barely reached Mrs. Bickersteth as she stood, 
supporting the slender figure. To her relief, at that mo¬ 
ment, Piper hurried down the passage. Their eyes met 
comprehensively. Here was something they both under¬ 
stood. 

“A little sal volatile and it will soon pass off,” Mrs. 
Bickersteth said in her comforting way. “Shall Piper 
bring it here, or can you get as far as my room, dear?” 

“Oh, not here,” the girl whispered, with a nervous 
look at her mother’s door. “I’ll come—yes. So stupid 
of me!” 

Between them, they helped her into safety. When she 
reached the arm-chair, she collapsed. But soon Piper was 
holding the medicine glass to her lips. 

“Drink, my lamb,” the old nurse told her. 

Joceline, with an effort, obeyed. 

“That’s right!” Mrs. Bickersteth stood, calm and 
smiling, above her. “I expect it’s the thunder weather.” 
There wasn’t a vestige of electricity in the air, but she 
always provided a reason for illness—a straw to which 
the patient could cling! “Now, don’t you talk. Lean 


i 5 4 YOUTH WINS 

back and rest. Why, you're getting a better colour al¬ 
ready." 

Soon, between the restorative and the power of sug¬ 
gestion, Joceline stirred and pronounced herself “quite all 
right." 

“But I shan’t let you go just yet." Mrs. Bickersteth 
crossed the room and murmured in Piper’s ear. 

“Yes, ma’am." Piper nodded. “I understand, but 
I’m just going to put a match to the fire. After your hot 
bath, ma’am." 

“Well, it isn’t a bad idea." She turned quickly, for 
Joceline had risen. 

“I’m keeping you up. And you’ve been so kind!” She 
clutched at the chair, still a little unsteady. 

“Now, that’s very naughty 1 You shouldn’t move.” 
Mrs. Bickersteth scolded her. She felt the girl’s hand. 
“Yes, you’re chilly. We’ll pull up to the stove and have a 
little chat. I don’t feel in the least sleepy." 

Soon the fir-cones were crackling, and the pleasant 
smell of burning wood brought its suggestion of home to 
both, those big logs of winter days. Piper had vanished. 
Side by side, they watched the little flames spurt up, to 
merge and send forth a cheerful glow. 

“And now, tell me all about it." Mrs. Bickersteth’s 
voice was like velvet. “I’ve three daughters of my own 
and they always come to me in their troubles. You 
weren’t faint for nothing, child. You’ve had some sort of 
a shock to-night. It will do you good to share the bur¬ 
den, and I’m perfectly safe. I shan’t repeat it." 

Joceline seemed to hesitate. Then she lifted her weary 
eyes. 


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155 

“Mother knows.” 

She sounded hopeless. 

“About your engagement to Oliver? Well, isn’t it 
better that she should?” Mrs. Bickersteth took the 
nearest hand in hers. “You can’t go on for ever 
like this.” 

“It’s the end,” said Joceline. A little shiver ran over 
her. 

“Come, come! You’re overwrought.” Mrs. Bicker¬ 
steth pressed the slender fingers that lay, still chilly, in 
her own. “You mean that your mother may not ap¬ 
prove? But look how she has changed to-day. So nice 
to Oliver!” The girl did not answer. “Won’t you tell 
me what you’re thinking?” 

The sapphire eyes searched her face. 

All the natural goodness of the woman, tested by the 
long years, shone out of it on the lonely girl and gave it 
a dignity which lifted it far above the disadvantages of 
her costume. It even gave this the illusion of being 
fitting: a holy robe of motherhood, draped over the full 
bosom where children had been rocked to sleep. Here 
was wisdom and repose. 

“I’ll tell you!” It was almost a cry. 

“That’s right. You can trust me.” Mrs. Bickersteth 
smiled at her. 

“And you won’t let Oliver guess? You’ll promise me?’* 
Joceline urged. 

“Oliver?” The other was startled. “But surely you 
tell him everything? The man you are going to marry.” 
She felt the girl shrink back. “One minute—I must think! 
Is it anything he ought to know, or just some private 


156 YOUTH WINS 

trouble? You see, I’m his friend too, and I mustn’t be 
disloyal.” 

“It’s nothing like that,” the girl murmured. “It con¬ 
cerns”—she paused—“my mother.” 

“Ah!” Mrs. Bickersteth’s lips tightened. 

“But I can’t bear him to know it! All—all I’ve gone 
through. If I tell you, you must promise?” Her voice 
changed, grew suddenly bitter. “It will make no differ¬ 
ence in the end. He’ll go away. I can see it coming.” 

“Never!” Mrs. Bickersteth sounded indignant. 
“Oliver is as true as steel. And he worships the ground 
you tread on!” 

“So did—” The girl bit her lip. 

“Those others?” Mrs. Bickersteth suggested. She was 
torn by pity and curiosity. 

She saw amazement spring up in Jo'celine’s pale face. 

“How did you know?” Her speech quickened. “Mother 
told you! What did she say? Did she tell you how— 
how—” With an effort, she checked herself. 

“Now, look here, my dear”-—Mrs. Bickersteth’s mind 
was resolved—“you must tell me everything. Otherwise, 
I can’t help you. If you say I shall not be doing Oliver 
an injustice in giving you my word, I promise you I will 
not repeat it. That’s settled, then”—she pressed the 
girl’s hand—“but I must have the whole truth. Now, take 
your time and don’t work yourself up. You can’t afford 
to be ill at this crisis.” 

“It won’t make any difference. When Oliver speaks 
to mother—and she means him to confide in her; I 
guessed that this afternoon—then she’ll send him away! 
I’ve seen it before. Of course it all sounds mad to you, 


YOUTH WINS 


157 

but you don’t know what I’ve been through! It’s some¬ 
thing she tells them. About me.” 

“But what?” Mrs. Bickersteth was shocked. She read 
the answer in Joceline’s eyes. “You mean to say you 
don’t know?” 

“I haven’t the faintest notion! That’s the truth—on 
my honour.” Her lip quivered; tears blurred her sight. 
“But I’ve seen it—seen the change in them. The way 
they look at me! ” She put her hands up over her face. 
“Afterwards—before they go. As if—as if I’d cheated 
them. Or wasn’t—wasn’t—” She broke down. “Oh, I 
can’t bear it with Oliver! I love him so. I know now 
that those others didn’t count. I was fond of them—and 
so unhappy! I wanted to get away from home. But I 
didn’t understand. Oliver is my life” She sobbed, on 
that comfortable shoulder, as Mrs. Bickersteth’s arm went 
round her. 

“Hush, hush, my poor child!” She was utterly mysti¬ 
fied, but she waited patiently for the girl to regain her 
control, aware that tears relieved the tension. “Now, we 
must be reasonable. Two heads are better than one and 
I want to ask you a few questions.” 

“Please do. Anything!” Joceline was wiping her eyes. 

“When did you first notice this?” 

“When Howard Gringold went away. Oh, of course 
you don’t know—” 

“Yes, I do. Never mind how. You noticed it before 
he left?” 

“The morning he sailed. He was staying with us and, 
the night before, he sat up late, after I’d gone to bed, 
talking things over with mother. She had seemed quite 


YOUTH WINS 


158 

pleased at our engagement, especially when it was decided 
that I should not go out to Uganda, but wait until he re¬ 
tired. But she didn’t want it announced. Old Lady 
Scrope was still alive, though very ill, and she had been 
so devoted to Roland. You understand?” Mrs. Bicker- 
steth nodded. “Of course I didn’t like Howard’s sailing. 
We had arranged to meet early for a last talk in the 
garden, but when I came down he wasn’t there! When 
he did appear he looked dreadful, as if he hadn’t slept all 
night, and I felt—oh, it’s difficult to explain! He was 
changed. There seemed a wall between us, even when he 
said good-bye. I’ve never forgotten the look he gave me 
as the train left the platform. Broken-hearted—almost 
suspicious, as though he’d lost his trust in me!” 

“And your mother?” 

“Mother was very kind. Both then and when his let¬ 
ter came, saying he had changed his mind and thought he 
could not afford to marry.” Her breath caught and she 
clenched her hands. “He could! It was an empty ex¬ 
cuse.” 

“Yes.” Mrs. Bickersteth nodded gravely. She was 
thinking “Suspicious”? A curious word. “My dear”—her 
voice was very gentle—“I suppose there is nothing—” 
She started again. “Young people are sometimes foolish. 
I don’t mean anything really wrong, but they do impulsive 
things and the world is uncharitable. Is there anything 
your mother knows which she thinks she ought to tell a 
man who will be her son-in-law?” 

The girl raised her head and looked back proudly into 
the other’s troubled face. 

“Nothing! I’m not like that. I can say honestly that 


YOUTH WINS 


159 

I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done. I’ve hothing to hide 
in my life. I’m”—her lips curled—“too proud.” 

“I felt thatl” Mrs. Bickersteth kissed the wet cheek 
on which a flush had risen. “But I had to ask—it’s all so 
perplexing. And you’re not really delicate? Your father 
was a healthy man?” 

She was skirting the question in her mind, but Joceline 
divined it. 

“There’s nothing in the family—if that’s what you 
mean. Like consumption or cancer. Father was one of 
the strongest people I’ve ever met and, although mother’s 
heart is weak, she’s really wonderful for her age. As for 
me, I’ve never had a serious illness until that breakdown 
years ago—and that was only nerves. I ought to know! 
I was overhauled by one doctor after another, and they 
all said it was temporary, the result of trouble and strain, 
that my organs were perfectly sound. No, it isn’t that. 
But what can it be? I’ve gone nearly mad trying to solve 
it.” 

“And of course you’ve never questioned your mother?” 

“How could I?” The girl shrank back. “I’ve no 
proofs. She would only laugh at me! When she’s angry, 
mother can be cruel. I’ve never forgotten her telling me 
once that I must be more careful in my attitude to men, 
as if—as if I ran after them! And she added, ‘Men tire 
of girls like that.’ As though it had been my own fault. 
That was after—” She hesitated. 

Mrs. Bickersteth filled the gap: 

“Some other man who admired you.” 

“Yes. Two years later, at Mentone. He was brought 
to our Villa by some friends. He was on leave from his 


i6o 


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ship and I liked him from the first. He was so happy ”— 
her smile was sad—“just like sunshine. He did me good. 
We were never engaged/’ she added quickly, “but I knew 
that he cared. He let me see it. I hadn’t been really sure 
about mother—about her sending Howard away—until 
then, when the same thing happened. She took Terence 
for a drive, and he went off the same night! I shouldn’t 
have known, but I’d walked down to the station to say 
good-bye to another friend, and there he was with his 
luggage. When he saw me he looked for a moment as if 
he would turn and fly! But he came up and explained 
that he’d been recalled to his ship, by a telegram. He 
didn’t make a good liar.” The girl’s lips curled bitterly. 
“But that wasn’t all. I suppose I felt hurt and I might 
have been over-sensitive, but it seemed to me that, 
somehow”—her voice shook—“he had lost his respect! 
The way he looked — Even Barbara saw it. He didn’t 
wait, just got into his carriage, after shaking hands with 
us. She smiled, and whispered: ‘So you’ve turned the 
poor boy down! ’ When I went home, I told mother that 
he’d left and gave his excuse. All she said was: ‘What a 
pity! You’ll miss him at tennis, darling.’ But I knew. 
I’ve known ever since. And so, I’ve avoided men.” She 
turned in her chair and faced the absorbed listener. “I 
didn’t want to know Oliver. But it happened. Perhaps 
I’ve been weak, but you can’t guess what he is to me! 
I’d go away with him to-morrow—to the other end of the 
world. I don’t care how poor we are. I want to help him 
—to work for him. I’ve never felt like that before. I’d 
cook and scrub—do anything , if only I could make him 


YOUTH WINS 161 

happy! But all the time I’ve been afraid. I knew that 
it wouldn’t last.” 

“But it will.” Mrs. Bickersteth sniffed. This time it 
was to keep back her tears. She had never heard any¬ 
thing so poignant as the note of despair in the still voice. 
“It shall . Oliver must be warned.” 

“Oh, no, no!” The girl was frightened. “I’m still 
praying it mayn’t happen. I don’t want my money— 
mother can have it. Though it isn’t only that. In her 
own way, she’s devoted to me. But it’s always been the 
same—her jealousy and love of possession. These last 
weeks I’ve seen it clearly—” 

Mrs. Bickersteth interrupted her: 

“You must tell him.” 

“I can’t!” The girl’s head went up. “She’s my mother. 
It’s treacherous. And I have no proofs—I can only guess. 
I’ve been so careful all along not to rouse Oliver’s suspi¬ 
cions. I’ve played the game. Father would say so.” 

“My dear, my dear,” Mrs. Bickersteth wailed. “You 
can’t sacrifice yourself like this! It isn’t right—not what 
God intended. He meant you to marry Oliver. You’ve 
your duty to him as well.” 

She paused, for the girl’s face had changed. The ten¬ 
sion of her pose relaxed. Her blue eyes were fixed on 
space, as though some vision rose before her, some hope 
beyond material promise. 

Her lips moved. Mrs. Bickersteth, leaning forward, 
caught the words: 

“Then we must leave it in His hands. I—hadn’t 
thought of that.” 


CHAPTER X 


M RS. BICKERSTETH sat in a chair at the far 
end of the terrace enjoying the drowsy post¬ 
prandial hour. On her knee was a new novel, 
received that morning from Adela, who wrote: “You ought 
to read it, mother.” 

It was strange, she thought, that the literature one 
“ought” to read was never the most enjoyable. Could it 
be the hint of compulsion—or merely that she was old- 
fashioned? This was one of those brilliant, modern 
novels in which, as she expressed it, “You have to count 
back the lines to find out who is saying what.” Mrs. Bick- 
ersteth sighed. She was sure it would have an unhappy 
ending, or break off suddenly, leaving the reader in mid¬ 
air. She resented unhappy endings. They were untrue 
to romance. There was too much “real sorrow” in life 
to be harrowed by pain in fiction. 

“So unnecessary!” She closed the book. 

Her thoughts turned to Joceline and the scene in the 
bedroom two nights ago. It had brought no visible fru¬ 
ition. Mrs. Bickersteth was dissatisfied. Trench seemed 
grave and reticent, the girl more elusive than ever. Alone, 
Mrs. Verney flitted across the scene, dainty and capricious, 
gracious to the young man, outwardly loving to her daugh¬ 
ter. 

Joceline seemed to have relapsed into that state of 
lethargy which Mrs Bickersteth had regretted in the first 
162 


YOUTH WINS 


163 

days at Bagnoles. Vis-a-vis to Trench, the poor lady felt 
guilty. If only she could give him a hint, warn him 
against Mrs. Verney! But she had “promised” Joceline. 
The secret weighed on her like lead. 

At the moment, the trio were not to be seen. The girl 
had looked very wan at lunch and Mrs. Bickersteth re¬ 
membered that this was the day which should terminate 
the week’s respite granted by Trench. A little thrill ran 
through her. What would happen when the curtain rang 
up on the second act, and how would Mrs. Verney behave? 
Was it possible she would give her consent, or would the 
comedy turn to drama? 

The terrace was gay this afternoon, full of groups round 
the tables, or chattering near the parapet. In the air was 
the light, heady note of Gallic conversation, with a sense 
of perpetual movement. They were never still when they 
talked, she thought. No repose! In the sunshine the 
scene reminded her of a toy loved in her youth; a box 
filled with brightly-coloured fragments of glass, which 
spun round on a handle and presented a series of dazzling 
effects. Mrs. Bickersteth blinked, but enjoyed it. So 
“foreign,” she decided. 

Through the lounge door came the Comtesse de Mesnil, 
with her elegant but elderly figure, her long, myopic eyes 
narrowed as she peered at the various coteries. She moved 
slowly down the terrace, seeking a vacant place and hesi¬ 
tated near the table chosen by Mrs. Bickersteth, an empty 
chair at her side. 

The latter caught the Frenchwoman’s inquiring glance 
and the half-smile that accompanied it. 

“Bon jour!” She mastered her nervousness. “Ne 


164 YOUTH WINS 

voulez pas avoir cette chaise?’’ (“Avoir” somehow did 
not sound right?) 

“I do not derange you, madame?” 

“Pas de tout.” Mrs. Bickersteth beamed and observed 
that it was fine weather, as the Countess gracefully settled 
herself. 

She opened the ball with a query respecting the book 
on the other’s knee. Mrs. Bickersteth laboriously ex¬ 
plained. 

“Tiens! Madame your daughter writes? What a 
talent! You must be proud of her.” She raised her lorg¬ 
nettes to study a pair not far from them. “Pretty, the 
line, is it not?” 

Her slight gesture embraced a new costume worn by 
Pallot’s mannequin. 

Mrs. Bickersteth assented. 

“Though I shouldn’t care for green myself,” she added. 
“Such an unlucky colour.” 

“The colour of Spring,” murmured the Countess. 

They both watched the handsome girl who was flirting 
with a young Frenchman, where she stood, her back to 
the parapet, playing with an enamelled medallion that 
hung from a fine cord round her throat and matched her 
long, swinging earrings. 

He was evidently teasing her, criticizing the model 
gown. Presently, emboldened by her easy manner, he 
drew up a fold of the draped skirt, re-arranging it to his 
fancy. 

“Comme ga!” they heard him say. “Oh, I have the 
good taste. I know myself in these affairs!” and he gave 
her a provocative glance. 


YOUTH WINS 165 

Mrs. Bickersteth stiffened. He shouldn’t touch her. 
She remarked upon it to her companion and the obvious 
flirtation in a carefully subdued voice. 

“It is a distraction/’ the other said lightly. “There is 
not much for a young man to do in a place like Bagnoles. 
He sacrifices himself to his mother who did not care to 
come alone.” 

Another admirer sauntered up and joined in the argu¬ 
ment. He, too, held views on the dress and aired them 
vivaciously. He offered the girl a cigarette and proceeded 
to light it for her, with a good deal of by-play. Mrs. 
Bickersteth knew him by sight as the husband of one of 
those taking the cure, an attractive Parisian. And there 
she sat, at the next table, as indifferent as the Countess to 
her husband’s need of a “distraction”! For by now the 
two men were openly vying for the handsome girl’s fa¬ 
vours. 

She entered into the game with gusto, making use of 
her dark eyes, and shrewdly realizing that it was all good 
for business, drawing attention to her clothes which roused 
envy among the women. 

“Dites done, mademoiselle,” said the older man, “it is 
true, this history that I hear concerning a bain force?” 

“Ah, ga!” The mannequin shrugged her shoulders, 
amused, and blew a little ring of smoke into the face too 
near her own. She apologized, laughing, “Mille pardons, 
monsieur!” and scattered the smoke with her hand. 

“Always the little game of defence?” he retorted, with 
an air of malice. 

Mme. de Mesnil smiled and turned to her absorbed 
companion. 


i66 


YOUTH WINS 


“They talk of that affair at the Baths. Without doubt, 
you have heard it, madame? It is incredible that a doc¬ 
tor could be —si peu convenable! Enfin, he merited his 
fate.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth, curious, disclaimed the knowledge 
and begged for information. 

It appeared that the “grande fille de chez Pallot” had 
decided to take a light course of baths. She had chosen 
a certain young doctor but lately come to the town and 
whom she had seen in her walks abroad. The Countess 
skilfully glided over the commencement of their acquaint¬ 
ance and brought the story to its climax. The doctor had 
lost his head one morning and attempted to embrace his 
patient, during his visit to her at the Baths. The girl, 
with a calculated malice, had thrown her arms round his 
neck and purposely upset his balance. Slipping on the 
wet floor, he had plunged head foremost into the water, 
to emerge, soaked and chastened, and run the gauntlet 
of the amused Establishment, with no change nearer 
than his Villa! All the town was laughing at him and he 
would certainly lose his post. 

He had not been prepared to test the waters, the Coun¬ 
tess concluded, smiling. A case of “Physician, heal thy¬ 
self!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth was shocked to the core. Not only 
did the story disgust her, but Mme. de MesniPs attitude. 
This elegant grande dame , to relate the adventure with 
open amusement? 

Mme. de Mesnil, aware of this, adroitly turned the con¬ 
versation. You never knew where you stood with the 
English, one minute friendly, the next farouche! Yet 


YOUTH WINS 


167 

Mrs. Verney had enjoyed it, adding her own witty com¬ 
ment, with her soft, tinkling laugh. The Countess began 
to talk of her: her charm, her “sentiment of the costume/” 
her conversation —“si spirituel!” (This puzzled Mrs. 
Bickersteth who thought she meant “spiritual.”) Mme. 
de Mesnil went on to discuss Joceline. A beautiful face, 
but a little sad? It was strange that the girl remained 
single—she had known them for three consecutive seasons. 
In France, a marriage would have been arranged long 
ago by the parents, especially as—so she gathered—the 
dot must be considerable? 

“A thousand pounds,” Mrs. Bickersteth mentioned. 

“Pas mal /” She was turning it into francs. “Still, I 
should have expected more.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth stared. 

“Than a thousand a year?” 

Mme. de Mesnil exclaimed at this. Annually? Not pos¬ 
sible! Then the girl was a great heiress? Rapidly, in her 
mind, she ran through her male relations. There was Jean 
de Mesnil, her husband’s nephew, of whom every one said 
it was time that he “ranged himself”—paying his debts, 
in the usual fashion. The religion was a difficulty, but 
that might be overcome. Suddenly she remembered 
Trench and his all too obvious attentions. With skill, she 
introduced his name. It was evident that he was seri¬ 
ously epris. Would he “make the demand” to Mrs. Ver¬ 
ney? Of late, things seemed to point to it. The parent 
had changed her attitude. But perhaps, she had been 
making inquiries regarding his income and family? It 
was well, since Miss Verney was a great heiress, and the 
mother seemed devoted to her—charming, the way she 


i 68 


YOUTH WINS 


spoke of her child! Possibly, this afternoon, something 
might be arranged? She sighed, remembering the for¬ 
tune, and the dire needs of her nephew, Jean. What that 
infatuation had cost him! And not even a first-class 
actress. Yes, it was time he took a wife and gave up his 
present train. 

She started at the sound of her neighbour’s puzzled 
voice: 

“This afternoon? Je ne comprends pas.” Mrs. Bick- 
ersteth smiled comfortably, for that sentence had come 
very pat. 

“Ah, you did not know? They drive together. I heard 
Mme. Verney invite him as I stood in the lounge. With¬ 
out doubt, it is an occasion that she offers him for the first 
approach.” With this she made a graceful excuse and 
rose to her feet: “Au revoir, madame,” and trailed off 
down the terrace which was rapidly emptying. 

Mrs. Bickersteth remained, thoughtful, digesting this 
information. A sense of coming disaster oppressed her as 
she pulled her chair farther into the shade under her own 
balcony. Was this drive the result of Trench’s desire to 
put an end to his suspense and purposely manoeuvred by 
him? Or a fresh move in the game on Mrs. Verney’s part, 
the occasion she sought to— What did she do? What 
was it she told these men? 

Peace settled on the terrace. In the garden below, 
white skirts fluttered within the cage of the tennis court. 
The French boy, with his shameless legs, was playing ball 
with his sisters; in an excited but aimless fashion that 
had nothing in common with English games; He would 
trickle the ball down a slope to the smallest child and, 


YOUTH WINS 


169 

when she caught it, run down and take it away from her. 
No method, thought the onlooker. Why didn’t he let her 
throw it back? Their voices rose, shrill and febrile, whilst 
under a tree their mother sat and drew swift, determined 
stitches in her endless embroidery. Occasionally she 
would look up and call to them: “Doucement, douce - 
merit!” or beckon to her elder daughter and refasten the 
big bow which secured her long plaits. They hung stiffly 
on either side of the parting down the back of her head 
and at dinner were coiled into shiny buns over her ears. 

Most unhealthy, Mrs. Bickersteth decided. The child 
would certainly grow up deaf. Their clothes, too, were 
ridiculous. Children’s everyday frocks should be plain, 
with plenty of freedom for their limbs. But the French 
were a strange race. She thought of that horrible story, 
A doctor, to behave like that! Piper was right. They 
were immoral. 

She was feeling drowsy with the heat. Her eyelids 
closed and her double chin nodded down on to her chest. 

The sound of a light step disturbed her, echoing through 
the deserted terrace. With a jerk, she raised her head 
and saw Joceline approaching. 

“Well, my dear?” She smiled at the girl, who halted 
before her chair. “So you’ve not gone out with your 
mother?” 

“No, I had a headache and she made me lie down.” 
Her lips curved. “As a matter of fact, it seemed an excuse 
for a quiet hour with Oliver, but I couldn’t warn him 
when I went up. Do you know where he is?” She saw 
Mrs. Bickersteth’s eyes widen. “I mean, if he’s still about 
the place?” 


170 


YOUTH WINS 


“Sit down, dear. You shouldn’t stand in the sun with¬ 
out a hat. It’s shady here.” She patted the chair be¬ 
side her, aware of acute uneasiness. “Oliver has gone for 
a drive,” she said, as the girl obeyed her. 

Joceline started, guessing the truth. 

“Not with mother? How—where? But he promised 
me another day!” 

“Your mother asked him. It wasn’t his fault.” Mrs. 
Bickersteth met the sapphire eyes as composedly as she 
could. “Now, you mustn’t get fancies into your—” 

“Fancies!” Joceline interrupted her. “She’s going to 
tell him—to send him away. I might have guessed it!” 

In the silence that followed, from below, came a re¬ 
pressive French voice: 

“Doucement, Pierre! Non, non, ce n’est pas gentil, 
mon fils.” 

Then the silence fell again, with a sense of disaster. 

Mrs. Bickersteth determinedly broke it. 

“Oliver will not believe her.” 

There was no response. Joceline sat rigid, looking 
down at her hands, tightly clasped in her lap. At last, 
she straightened her slender neck, her eyes lifted to the 
hills, wooded and mysterious, against a sky where the 
blue was broken by drifting wisps of cloud that held a 
suggestion of widespread wings. 

“If she drives him away”—her voice was repressed— 
“I shall not stay with mother. I know now what I shall 
do.” 

“What?” Mrs. Bickersteth felt anxious. The girl’s 
calm seemed unnatural. 


YOUTH WINS 


171 

“I shall join Mary—become a nun. I must have some¬ 
thing,” she whispered, “and perhaps, from the first, this 
was—intended.” 

“You don’t mean—you can't mean become a Roman 
Catholic?” Mrs. Bickersteth was horrified. Her own re¬ 
ligion was well-defined. She called herself “a Protestant.” 
All her servants were “Church of England.” By which 
she meant Low Church, with a flavour of her early days, 
hallowed by Queen Victoria, Defender of the Faith, God 
bless her! Not for the mistress of Torlish Manor did the 
“sons of God” shout for joy. They knelt and whispered 
into their hats. She was stunned by Joceline’s confession. 
This was what came, she thought, of Mrs. Verney’s Ritual¬ 
ism—incense, banners and processions, which, as every 
one knew, decked the road to Rome. 

“Neither fish, fowl, nor good red herring!” In her 
absorption, she cried it aloud, and Joceline glanced side¬ 
ways, startled. “It’s true” Mrs. Bickersteth waxed in¬ 
coherent. “They all did it—Manning, Newman—” She 
pulled herself up. “My dear child, I’m shocked to hear 
of this new idea. Really, I’d thought better of you!” 

“But it isn’t new,” Joceline corrected. “I was brought 
up in a convent, and I’ve often wanted to return there. 
It’s more difficult nowadays, since so many Orders havfc 
been dispersed, but I could enter a nursing one.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth lost all patience. 

“You’d be better nursing your own children! That’s 
what the Almighty intended. You don’t deserve Oliver. 
I never thought you’d give in like this. It isn’t”—she 
choked—“it isn’t British!” 


IJ2 


YOUTH WINS 


It was her most deadly insult. 

The girl rose to her feet. 

“You don’t understand.” 

“I do understand. You haven’t had my experience—” 

“But I have my own,” Joceline slipped in. 

“Pouf!” said Mrs. Bickersteth. 

Joceline’s hand came down on her shoulder, light as a 
willow leaf. 

“I’m sorry. You’ve been so kind to me.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth resisted the faint entreaty in the 
words. She stared, with blank eyes, before her, over that 
happy pastoral scene which had first breathed romance to 
her. She was not narrow-minded, she told herself, but 
one couldn’t trifle with Belief. She prayed for the heathen 
and pitied them—they were ignorant and underclad—but 
a renegade filled her with horror. To deny one’s Faith 
and adopt another, seemed to her like denying Honour. 
She must not be weak, but speak her mind. 

“Joceline,” she began. 

She looked up and gasped. The girl was gone! She 
had drifted away whilst Mrs. Bickersteth was framing a 
powerful attack on the Papacy. The terrace, partly veiled 
in shadow thrown by the hotel walls, was empty, save for 
a solitary waiter who was collecting coffee-cups and put¬ 
ting order among the chairs. He caught her gesture of 
surprise and advanced, a tray poised on one hand. 

“Oui, madame?” 

Mrs. Bickersteth blinked. 

“Rien,” she said severely. 

“Bien, madame.” 

He bowed and retreated. All the English were mad! 


YOUTH WINS 


173 


The sun was sinking over the hills of La Mayence when 
Mrs. Bickersteth, hot and weary, dropped onto*a seat near 
the Saut du Capucin, thankful for a respite from duty. 
The doctor had ordered more exercise. Gallantly, she 
obeyed him. 

She could see, directly below her, the roof of the Baths 
and the gleaming water where it widened into a lake, but 
it made her giddy to look down and her eyes travelled 
slowly past the road veiled in trees to the Chateau de la 
Roche-Bagnoles, with its wide and verdant park. Be¬ 
yond, across the valley, were masses of piled boulders 
that rose, like a vast, ruined wall, to the heights where 
the Roc du Chien commanded the countryside. 

Mrs. Bickersteth tried in vain to make out the head 
of a dog. Here was another disillusion! Long ago, she 
had promised herself this steep climb and, so to speak, a 
sight of the Dog face to face. For a moment she caught 
herself wishing that she had never come to Bagnoles; then 
chid herself for ingratitude. The cure was succeeding be¬ 
yond her hopes, but she was sad at heart. More than 
ever, she desired this marriage between the harassed 
young people. For Joceline was weak, Trench her only 
remaining hope. He must save the girl—a nun, indeed! 
She sniffed, her Roman nose in the air. 

At this juncture she became aware of the man on whom 
she pinned her faith. He was coming down the hill to¬ 
wards her, recklessly, in great strides. At the sight of 
his face, her heart sank. For Trench looked driven by 
the Furies! What could have happened? Her body 
went stiff and the hand grasping her walking-stick trem¬ 
bled. 


YOUTH WINS 


174 

He would have swung past her blindly, had she not 
called him by name. 

“Oliver!” 

With an effort, as though he turned on a brake, he 
checked himself, his heels grinding into the path. 

“Oh, dear, whatever’s the matter?” she cried. 

“The matter?” He seemed to collect his wits. “Noth¬ 
ing! I can’t tell you.” 

“But you must.” She laid a hand on his arm, gazing up 
at his strained face. “Where have you left Mrs. Verney?” 

“At a Villa.” He jerked his head backwards. “I can’t 
stay. I’ve something to do. Sorry! ” 

Before she could say any more he had shaken off her 
hand and started forward down the incline. He turned 
the corner and was gone. 

Mrs. Bickersteth sat there, stunned. 

“What can she have told him? It’s her doing!” She ad¬ 
dressed the Roc du Chien, frowning down on the peaceful 
valley. “It’s something dreadful—I can feel it—or he’d 
never look like that.” And suddenly, click! went a little 
door in her memory. Again she heard the girl’s voice: 
“The way—the way they look at me!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth blinked. The scene swam before her 
eyes. 

“And it might have been Dicky himself,” she thought, 
“when he wouldn't stop and listen—the day he let the 
pony down.” 

A fugitive breeze stole through the trees and she shiv¬ 
ered, for she was over-heated. Across the wide gulf, it 


YOUTH WINS 


175 


seemed to her that the great rock had altered its shape. 
A dog’s head grinned back, sable against the evening sky. 
Evil too—like Mrs. Verney! 

“I can’t stay here.” She rose to her feet, suddenly 
faced with a glimpse of Nature, no longer smiling, but 
ruthless, mother of secrets unknown to man. “I must go 
home and talk to Piper.” 

But Piper brought little consolation. The whole affair 
was outside her homely range of experience. Her sym¬ 
pathy was all for Trench. She was even more shocked 
than her mistress by Joceline’s calm confession. For 
Piper had been brought up in the fold of Methodism. She 
had been torn from her predilections by the necessity of 
taking the children to Torlish Church, adopting the “ways 
of the gentry,” yet remaining friendly with “chapel-folk.” 
Even the minister understood this. 

“It’s her French blood—it’s no good to her,” she in¬ 
formed Mrs. Bickersteth, who added the last touch to her 
toilet, in the shape of an Egyptian scarf heavily encrusted 
with metal and owning a curious musty smell, vaguely 
suggestive of ginger. A “foreign smell,” Piper called it. 
“I saw Mrs. Verney come in, ma’am. She was looking 
just the same.” 

“She would.” Mrs. Bickersteth straightened the jet 
comb in her hair. “I shall come to bed early.” 

“You’ll find me here, ma’am,” was Piper’s response. 

Staunch—that was her unfailing charm. Her mistress 
felt comforted. 

She went down alone in the lift. The smallest chas¬ 
seur’s eyes were red. He had narrowly escaped dismissal 


YOUTH WINS 


176 

through loitering on a town errand. Everybody seemed 
in trouble! Mrs. Bickersteth promptly tipped him and 
was warmed by the smile he gave her when she stepped 
forth, with dignity. Youth. It was very dear to her. 
Poor Oliver—poor, poor boy! 

At dinner, his place was vacant. 

“Late,” she thought, but he did not appear, though she 
lingered long over her ice which was lemon-water, a thing 
she hated. She could see Mrs. Verney, talking, vivaciously 
moving her tiny hands, and Joceline listening to her, pale 
and inscrutable. Mrs. Bickersteth hardened her heart. 
She could hide things, that girl, like her wicked old 
mother. But, what could she have said? What was it? 

The Verneys went out; Mrs. Bickersteth followed. The 
night was warm and the pair ahead joined the flaneurs on 
the terrace. Mme. de Mesnil came up with them and 
slipped a hand through her old friend’s arm. Her mind, 
too, was busy. She had noticed the young man’s absence 
at dinner. Had he received his conge? He was certainly 
beau garqon —after the English fashion—but a different 
type to the Verneys. Something in the way he moved. 
Was there, then, a chance for Jean? Should she ask her 
nephew down for the week-end and introduce him? The 
hotel charges were high and she had the frugal mind of 
the French. She decided to wait another day. 

Mrs. Verney came in with her, was nabbed by “the 
General,” and the party settled down to bridge, with the 
exception of Joceline, who wandered back to the terrace. 
There were no signs of Trench. 

Mrs. Bickersteth could bear it no longer. She must put 
her pride in her pocket and find out how matters stood. 


YOUTH WINS 


177 

She drew the Egyptian shawl round her and went in search 
of the girl. 

She found her standing by the steps, listlessly gazing 
at the lake, barely visible in the darkness, for there was 
no moon to-night. Mrs. Bickersteth’s voice made her 
start. 

“My dear,” the older woman began, “I hope you don’t 
think me hard? But what you told me this afternoon was 
a surprise and—yes, a shock. Still, we, won’t talk of that. 
I want to help you, if I can.” 

“I know.” The girl put out her hand and her eyes 
searched Mrs. Bickersteth’s face. “But it’s too late. 
Oliver’s gone.” 

“Not left the hotel?” Mrs. Bickersteth, in her distress, 
clutched the delicate fingers she held. 

“I didn’t mean that. Mother has told him. I knew 
what had happened, during the drive, when he didn’t come 
in to dinner. Besides, I expected it.” 

She spoke like a woman in a dream, whom nothing can 
surprise, and Mrs. Bickersteth’s heart sank. 

“But you’re not going to stand it? You mustn’t! It 
isn’t fair to Oliver. You must explain everything. About 
your mother—those other men. I saw him for a moment 
this evening in a path on the hill. He had left Mrs. Ver- 
ney at some Villa, and I thought he was on his way home. 
He looked—” She searched for an adequate expression 
and failed. 

“I know,” said the girl again. 

“Then what do you intend to do?” 

“Nothing. If he loves me, he’ll come to me and tell 
me the truth.” 


YOUTH WINS 


178 

“But supposing she had made him promise not to tell 
you? He wouldn’t tell me” Mrs. Bickersteth was 
alarmed. 

“Then—” Suddenly the girl’s composure gave way. 
“Oh, I can’t talk about it! Don’t you see what I’m try¬ 
ing to do? Not to let mother know I’ve guessed. To 
give her”—she choked—“the power to insult me! An¬ 
other failure —my fault! I can’t bear it over again! If 
he loved me—I believed in him sol” 

A tall form loomed up below and there came to them a 
man’s voice: 

“Is that you, Joceline? . . . I’m back, darling.” 

The girl gave a sharp cry, wrenched her hand free and 
was off, flying down the shallow steps into the darkness, 
to her lover. 

“Oh, Oliver!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth heard her, and the man’s response: 
“Steady, dear!” before the shadows enfolded the pair. 


CHAPTER XI 


/TRS. BICKERSTETH slept badly, between ex- 

V/1 citement and “that ice,” and was glad to accept 
Piper’s suggestion that she should for once skip 
her bath and lie in bed an hour longer. 

The morning sun streamed into her room, and all the 
world seemed young again. 

“Of course they’ll marry each other,” she thought. “It’s 
natural, and Nature knows best.” 

A sudden, queer doubt assailed her; a memory of that 
tense moment when the great rock had shown its teeth. 
Vaguely she felt that Nature at home—the rich, red soil 
where the gulls came wheeling, to alight and strut down 
the furrows, and the stone walls brought forth ferns— 
was not the same as Nature abroad. There were moments 
here when the Earth Mother crouched, hungry, and set a 
trap for frail mortals—when Pan laughed in the reeds! 

This was so foreign to her belief in Nature being the 
Divine Handmaiden that she put it down to indigestion. 
A little soda and peppermint and these morbid fancies 
would pass! She dissolved a tabloid in her tooth-glass, 
stirring it with the silver spoon that bore the town arms 
of Llandudno. Strange how all these homely treasures 
made her feel safer across the Channel? 

Adela had written that morning—dear Adela, so like 
herself, in a thinner binding, with modern type—and had 
counselled her to have patience with Elsie. Good advice, 
179 


180 YOUTH WINS 

her mother decided. There was nothing like Time for 
childish fancies. 

“All the same/’ wrote Adela, “both the boys will have 
to work. Adrian quite agrees with me. If we get a Labour 
Government in, with Capital Levy, where shall we be? 
But let’s hope it won’t happen. I expect even if this 
occurs they’ll find it not so easy to govern and agitate 
at the same time! Russia has been a good example of 
what Revolution does for a country. And England has 
always been level-headed.” 

Yes, Adela was comforting. She never met trouble 
half-way. There was a postscript: 

“How do you like the book I sent you?” 

Mrs. Bickersteth felt guilty. 

“I’ll get up and read it now,” she decided. “I can sit 
on the balcony and there’ll be nothing to distract me.” 

But there was. No sooner had she settled herself, a 
mushroom hat shading her eyes, and opened the novel at 
Chapter II, trying hard to remember the first, than she 
saw Joceline and Oliver come into sight near the tennis 
court. 

“It’s as if,” she thought, “they’d been there all night! 
But how sweet she looks—alive again.” 

At the base of the steps, the pair parted. Joceline ran 
up alone and crossed to the lounge door—on her way, 
Mrs. Bickersteth decided, to meet Mrs. Verney after her 
bath. Trench stood, watching the girl’s progress, half- 
hidden by the balustrade that curved outwards, to sup¬ 
port a lower terra-cotta vase. Looking up at the hotel, 
he became aware of the interested spectator. 


YOUTH WINS 181 

He waved to her and, mounting the steps, halted under 
the balcony. 

“Good morning!” he cried “Are you coming down? 
I was hoping I might see you.” 

“I’ll come.” She rose, a gigantic toadstool, broad¬ 
stemmed, under the wide hat. “Shall I meet you on the 
terrace?” 

“No,” he said quickly. “It’s rather public. What 
about that little room off the lounge? We should be 
quiet there. It’s always empty in the mornings.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth, delighted, agreed; and there the two 
conspirators met. 

Trench carefully closed the door. 

“Now,” he said, “I’ve got a great favour to ask. But 
I’d better tell you at the start that I’m off to Mont St. 
Michel to-morrow.” 

All the happiness died out of her face. 

“No! Alone?” she added absurdly. 

“Perhaps Sir Raphael may come with me—it was his 
idea—for the week-end. But the main point is, I want 
Mrs. Verney to hear of it.” 

“I see.” Mrs. Bickersteth nodded sagely. “And I’m 
to tell her? I wish you’d sit down. You look so tired.” 

She noticed the drawn look about his mouth, as if he 
too had been cheated of sleep, and patted the hard sofa 
on which she had settled herself, her knitting bag by her 
side, from which protruded Adela’s book. 

“I’d rather stand,” Trench replied. “I’ve not too much 
time. Have you made any plans for to-morrow?” She 
shook her head and he went on, a twinkle in his shadowed 


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182 

eyes, “Then will you ask me to drive to Domfront—I’ll see 
about the car—and have lunch with me there?” 

“To Domfront?” She stared at him. “Of course—if 
you want to. But if you’re off to Mont St. Michel, how 
can you fit it in? The journey takes five hours.” 

“I know. That’s why I’m dreadfully sorry, but I can’t 
accept your kind invitation.” 

He laughed. Mrs. Bickersteth thought him mad. 

“Is it a joke? I don’t understand. Why must you go 
to Mont St. Michel? I wish you’d tell me what’s hap¬ 
pened?” 

“I mustn’t.” He smiled gravely. “You’ll have to trust 
me for the present. But I wanted you to invite me, so 
as to get the ground clear. Now, when you see Mrs. 
Verney, you won’t have to tell fibs. I can’t have you 
doing that for me. I’m asking such a lot already.” 

“And what is the favour?” She was intrigued. 

“It’s this. To go that drive to Domfront and take Joce- 
line in my place. It’s—frightfully important.” There 
was no doubt of his gravity now. His voice was rough 
with some hidden emotion. “I want you to tell Mrs. Ver¬ 
ney that you’d set your heart on this expedition and then 
I disappointed you. Give her the reason, my departure, 
and say you don’t care to go alone, but have booked the 
car, and would she lend you Joceline?” 

“You’ll be there!” Mrs. Bickersteth jumped to conclu¬ 
sions. “To meet us when we arrive?” 

“I shall not be there,” said Trench firmly. “It’s pos¬ 
sible she may ask you this, so be quite certain on the point. 
I want Mrs. Verney to think that I’ve given the whole 
thing up as hopeless, am off to-morrow, in despair. I’ve a 


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183 

notion that she’ll be delighted to get Joceline out of the 
way, to avoid the chance of farewells. But you’ll have 
to be very diplomatic. She’s as shrewd as—as the devil!” 
he scoffed. 

‘Til do my best.” Mrs. Bickersteth was worried. She 
could see no point in this journey to Domfront. “What 
time should we have to start?” 

“Would eleven o’clock be too early?” 

“No, I can manage that.” 

“Good! I’ll fix it up. The car will be at the door, 
waiting.” 

“But it’s my car,” she protested, guessing the young 
man’s intention. 

“Please let me?” He came nearer. “I’ll be hurt if you 
refuse.” There was pain in his voice. 

She hesitated. 

“You mean that—really?” 

“I do. That’s settled, then. You must drive the short¬ 
est way, through the Foret d’Andaine, you and Joceline. 
I’ve a feeling you’ll bring it off. I can’t tell you more at 
present, but everything hinges on this trip. There’s very 
serious trouble. You shall know it later on, if—” Trench 
checked himself. 

“And yet you run away!” she cried. “It seems so—” 

“Cowardly?” He supplied the missing word. “I have 
to. It’s part of my plan. I want Mrs. Verney to think 
she’s succeeded.” 

“But you’re going to marry Joceline?” 

“I am. In any case.” 

Again she could not divine his meaning. He went on, 
rather quickly: 


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184 

“I may sail from St. Malo, direct, without returning 
here.” 

“Oh, no!” She rose to her feet, utterly discomfited. 
“You can’t mean to California?” 

“Lord, no! To England. It might simplify matters. 
I’ve been making inquiries. It’s not easy to get married 
quickly in France. I should wait for Joceline in London 
—they’re only staying two days in Paris. It would put 
her mother off the scent. But I’m not going to tell you 
any more. I want you to have an easy conscience.” He 
looked at her with such real affection in the eyes so like 
her son’s that the tears rose to her own. “You’ve a diffi¬ 
cult task before you. But, if you can get Joceline to-mor¬ 
row to Domfront, I’ll bless you all my life.” 

“I will” Her head went up. She held out her hand 
to him. “You can trust me, Oliver.” As he took it and 
pressed it in both his own, she added rather plaintively, 
“But I wish I knew everything.” 

“You shall. This isn’t good-bye,” he told her. 

The full significance of the remark broke in on her, 
like a passing-bell. He was going away, out of her life, 

“Oh, Oliver, I shall miss you!” She bit her lip, which 
was quivering. 

“And I, you. But we’ll meet in England. You’ll come 
to our wedding, stand by us? Ah, don’t!” For she was 
crying. He put an arm round her shoulders. “You’ve 
been more than—” he was going to say “a mother” but 
changed it chivalrously to—“more than a good friend to 
me. I couldn’t have got on without you. May I?” 

She nodded and he kissed her, on her smooth, firm 
cheek. Mrs. Bickersteth wiped her eyes. 


YOUTH WINS 


iS 5 

“Silly of me—I’m getting old. Senile!” She tried to 
smile. “Now, let me be quite clear in my mind.” She 
went through his directions, Oliver confirming them. 
“And I shall see you to-night and tell you the result,” 
she concluded. 

“No—I forgot that! Will you slip a note under my 
door? I shan’t be coming in to dinner, I’m going to 
keep out of the way, since Mrs. Verney withholds her con¬ 
sent.” 

“But what did she tell you?” Mrs. Bickersteth, just in 
time, remembered her promise to Joceline. “I mean, she’d 
have to give you a reason?” 

Curiosity was consuming her. She saw Trench stiffen. 
Into his eyes came an expression of anger and pain before 
he averted them. 

“According to her, I’m utterly unsuitable.” She guessed 
this to be an evasion and frowned. He added dryly, “Oh, 
she was very nice about it. The question of money did 
not crop up. She has her own private reasons for not 
wishing Joceline to marry. And that’s all I must tell you.” 
He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late. I mustn’t be 
caught talking to you—she’d think we were conniving at. 
something. Stay here a few minutes and see that the 
coast’s clear. And thank you —thank you!” His voice 
vibrated. “I’m going to slip out this way.” He opened 
the French window. “Please fasten it after me. Don’t 
worry, but be careful. I shall see you before I leave— II 
promise you that. Ta-ta!” 

He stepped down onto the terrace, turned sharply to the 
right, keeping close to the wall and, when he reached the 


• f86 


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parapet, straddled it and let himself drop on to the higher 
aground below, where it sloped up to the main road. 

Mrs. Bickersteth closed the window, with a sense of 
bitter disappointment. She was no wiser for all their 
talk. What had Mrs. Verney said? She herself had ex¬ 
pected to find Trench in open rebellion, defying the parent, 
planning to run away with the girl. Instead of this, he 
was embarked on a fresh, mysterious adventure, under 
the cover of secrecy. Since Mrs. Verney knew now how 
matters stood between the pair, it could not be for Joce- 
line’s sake, to save her from the latter’s displeasure. Why 
shouldn’t everything be open? For, after all, at their 
ages, the mother’s consent was superfluous. It was true 
she could withhold the money, for the few years remain¬ 
ing to her, but in the end it must be the girl’s, and Trench 
could keep a wife without it—preferred to do so, as he 
had stated. He had his full share of pride. No, there 
was something more. He had talked of “serious trouble.” 
What had Mrs. Verney revealed? 

Mrs. Bickersteth returned to her old position on the 
sofa. Her eyes fell on her knitting bag. Many a time had 
she found that to occupy her hands induced clarity in her 
brain. She pulled out the yellow jumper which she was 
making for Elsie’s birthday and counted the stitches on 
the needle. Then, placidly, she began to knit. 

Click, click—she sorted out the tangled threads in her 
mind. Joceline had looked triumphant when she parted 
irom her lover, but the man himself betrayed strain. He 
-had gone through some serious ordeal. Mrs. Bickersteth 
could not forget his appearance on the hill by the Saut 
du Capucin and the expression on his face—“tortured,” 


YOUTH WINS 


187 

she found the word at last—as he came recklessly down 
the slope. What had happened during the drive, this test 
which he alone survived? 

There must be some dark secret, unknown to Joceline, 
that was Mrs. Verney’s final weapon to drive away the 
girl’s admirers. Was Joceline—Mrs. Bickersteth started 
—could she be illegitimate? The germ of some forgotten 
novel began to work in her mind. With something dread¬ 
ful about the father; a criminal, drunkard—or a con¬ 
vict? 

“That’s it! ” She almost cried it aloud. “And of course 
no man would tell the girl. They couldn’t betray Mrs. 
Verney.” 

The next moment her face fell. Would Mrs. Verney 
reveal such a sordid affair? She didn’t look like a bad 
woman. (Mrs. Bickersteth used the adjective in its nor¬ 
mal British sense, “bad” a synonym for “immoral.”) 
She was always dignified, although she dressed in that silly 
fashion. But didn’t this show a certain lightness, a want 
of stability at her age? Had she a “past”? Mrs. Bicker¬ 
steth almost hoped that she had! 

“She deserves it,” she told her knitting confusedly. “I 
shouldn’t wonder! And of course that’s where the will 
comes in, Joceline no right to the Verney money, and Mrs. 
Verney always so quiet whilst her husband was alive. 
She wanted to live it down.” 

A faint sound broke through her romance. She looked 
up. The door was opening, cautiously, a few inches. For 
a moment, watchful, she saw a pair of bright, dark eyes 
and the point of a duffle hood. Then the door was drawn 
to and the handle turned; the latch clicked into place. 


i88 


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Mrs. Bickersteth dropped a stitch. 

“Just like a scene in a play/’ she thought, with the thrill 
that always ran through her when the curtain drew up. 
For the simple at heart have this advantage: a palate for 
pleasure as clean as a child’s. 

Mrs. Verney, spying on her? No, on the young people! 
Joceline must have missed her mother when she alighted 
from the bus. Or—Mrs. Bickersteth’s instinct helped 
her; it was far sounder than her reason—Mrs. Verney had 
made some excuse to her daughter and come in search 
of Oliver, expecting, for some unknown reason, to find 
the young man hiding here. She was frightened! He 
hadn’t taken the news in the same way as those other 
men. His love for the girl was not that attraction of the 
flesh which so often leads to marriage, but the rarer sort, 
virile, yet holding the deep needs of the spirit. 

Oliver, Mrs. Bickersteth thought, was a man who would 
sacrifice all hope of paternity and marry a consumptive 
woman to nurse her tenderly till her death. 

Off she went, at a tangent. Could the girl be consump¬ 
tive, after all, and unaware of the fact? But Piper had 
sturdily refuted this notion, conveyed to her earlier. She 
had told Mrs. Bickersteth that Miss Verney wasn’t “the 
aright colour”; she never showed “that arctic flush!” 

Smiling at the memory, the elderly lady folded her knit¬ 
ting and went to the door to peer through a crack. All 
was safe. She emerged, and sailed forth into the sunshine 
to occupy her favourite seat. Once more, she opened 
Adela’s book, sighed, and settled down to her task. 

“I shall never like it,” she decided. “Somehow, the 
story doesn’t hold one.” 


YOUTH WINS 


189 

After a little she looked up at the smiling sky and the 
woods. Gently she closed the volume. Peace. She 
basked in the warm silence. 

A sparrow ventured close to her, found a shallow de¬ 
pression where sand had silted and began an energetic 
dust-bath. Mrs. Bickersteth watched the fluttering wings. 
Not one feather could fall—she remembered the verse, a 
favourite one from her childhood. Life was secure, held 
in His hand. ... It would all come right for those dear, 
young people. 

At lunch it was Joceline who talked and Mrs. Verney 
who listened. 

The old lady looked ill and peevish. Occasionally her 
dark eyes would travel to the empty table in the corner 
of the screen. Had Trench departed? She fervently 
hoped so. She had never felt less sure of a man. At least, 
this is what Mrs. Bickersteth shrewdly divined in those 
covert glances. 

Joceline seemed her normal self, but the watcher’s in¬ 
stinct, on the alert, discovered the signs of repressed ex¬ 
citement. Once the girl caught her eyes and read a subtle 
warning in them. She relapsed into silence, the old mask 
on her face. Mrs. Verney seemed to revive when Joceline, 
absent-mindedly, helped herself twice to salt. 

“Dreaming?” She smiled at her daughter. “I think 
this afternoon we’ll wander down into the town and buy 
that frock I spoke about and then forgot! Your careless 
old mother.” 

“But I don’t need it.” Joceline was troubled. 

“Not here, perhaps, but in the summer. We’re only 


I 9 0 YOUTH WINS 

staying two nights in Paris. We shan’t have much time 
for shopping.” 

The girl remembered Oliver’s caution: to behave as if 
nothing had occurred and fall in with plans for the fu¬ 
ture. 

“But we’ll go and see Mary? At least I hope to. She 
always looks forward to my visits.” 

“You’re very fond of her?” 

“She’s my best friend,” said Joceline simply. 

“And a nun.” Mrs. Verney’s lips twitched. “You 
ought to have been a Catholic.” 

Joceline glanced up, surprised. Was her mother in 
earnest, or mocking? Had she ever regretted the change 
of religion necessary to her marriage? For her husband 
had been firm on this point. The Squire’s wife must up¬ 
hold the orthodox creed of the country. Whenever they 
were staying in France, Mrs. Verney willingly attended 
the various Catholic services. Yet in Norfolk, Joceline 
remembered, she was inclined to frame excuses and send 
her daughter in her place to sit in the dark, old pew. But 
always with the careful warning: “If you see the Vicar’s 
wife, tell her that I’m not well to-day and thought it pru¬ 
dent to stay indoors.” 

So what was the meaning of this remark, lightly spoken 
across the table? Joceline tried an experiment: 

“I might become a Catholic yet, and return one day to 
the Convent.” 

Mrs. Verney looked amused. 

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. You’re too Conservative, like 
your father! The Verneys have done the same things, 
loved and worshipped, married and hunted, in the same 


YOUTH WINS 


191 

way for centuries. And you’re a Verney—in looks and 
brain. You don’t take after me. No, I can’t see you a 
Catholic—and certainly not a nun!” She gave her soft, 
brittle laugh. “You like men’s society. And why not?” 
She shrugged her shoulders. “Though as to being Con- 
servative, if it comes to that, all your ancestors in the 
early times were good Catholics. You were called after 
one: Josceline de Verneuil.” 

“The Crusader on the tomb in the church?” This was 
news to the girl. “I thought it was after my grand¬ 
father?” 

“It comes to the same thing.” Mrs. Verney finished 
her wine. “There has always been a Jocelyn Verney in 
the elder branch of the family. We had no son and, as 
you were born late in marriage”—she smiled—“well, we 
did the best we could!” 

“I wish you’d kept the ‘S’ in my name. Why didn’t 
you?” her daughter asked. “I’ve always loved old Josce¬ 
line with his crossed legs and the hound at his feet.” 

“Your father thought ‘Joceline’ more English. The 
same reason probably, why the name under Cromwell got 
changed to Verney. He disliked a Norman flavour. Or 
anything foreign, in fact. He always tried”—she smiled 
subtly—“to eradicate this taint in me and my mother’s 
influence. Do you remember your grandmother, Joce¬ 
line?” 

“Just! Her stick with an ivory handle, and the little 
thimble-case and scissors on her gold chatelaine. I think 
I was rather afraid of her!” 

Mrs. Verney nodded. 

“She was very strict with young people. Especially 


YOUTH WINS 


192 

after my father died and we went back to live in France. 
I remember that your Aunt Therese and I were never al¬ 
lowed to be alone with a man—or even alone outside the 
park. How would you have liked that?” She darted a 
smiling, malicious glance across the table. Joceline was 
silent. “But I’ve been a more indulgent mother.” Her 
eyes wandered. “Here comes Mrs. Bickersteth. She 
looks lonely to-day, without her young man! I suppose 
he’s gone on some expedition.” She paused. 

“Probably,” said Joceline calmly. 

“Then, shall we ask her to join us at coffee? Outside. 
It would be kind, I think.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth, all sails set, came to anchor at Mrs. 
Verney’s signal. She accepted the invitation, and the trio 
went out into the air. Her chair faced Joceline’s, with 
Mrs. Verney in between them. It was early yet and they 
had the corner to themselves, save for “the French boy 
with legs,” as Mrs. Bickersteth christened him, who was 
quarrelling with his youngest sister. She wore a bright 
tartan frock and a hat covered with a mixture of corn¬ 
flowers, dandelion puffs and poppies that formed a bril¬ 
liant note on the terrace. Black-haired, red-lipped, her 
sallow face lit up with anger, she darted forward suddenly 
and slapped the teasing boy on the cheek. He howled— 
took her by the shoulders and shook her, without mercy. 

Mrs. Verney interposed; fluently, in their own tongue. 
Her air of authority frightened the pair, who fell apart to 
stare at her. 

The boy regained his aplomb the first and started a volu¬ 
ble explanation. Mrs. Verney promptly checked him, but 
accepted his apology as he raised his hat with the air of a 


YOUTH WINS 


193 

man. His eyes slipped to Joceline’s face. For the girl 
looked beautiful to-day. 

“And to Mademoiselle, 1 ” he added, bowing. “But my 
sister is very young.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth smiled—then frowned. 

“A horrid little boy,” she said,*as the pair wandered off. 
“I can’t stand his precocious manner.” 

Mrs. Verney nodded, smiling. 

“He is my daughter’s devoted admirer. Yesterday he 
brought her flowers. With short, wet stalks, which looked 
suspicious! I don’t think they were bought, as they 
matched the ones on our table.” 

Joceline laughed. 

At the rare, youthful sound, Mrs. Verney’s face 
changed. 

“You shouldn’t encourage these young men!” 

It had all the appearance of a joke, but the girl under¬ 
stood. 

“You needn’t be afraid,” she responded. “I should 
never dream of marrying a Frenchman. They don’t seem 
to me sincere.” It was two-edged. She added, smiling, 
“Not even Pierre. I’m proof against his fascinations.” 

“Even his legs!” Mrs. Verney saw her chance at last. 
“And where is your admirer gone?” she asked Mrs. Bick¬ 
ersteth, when the waiter had laid down the coffee. “I 
mean Mr. Trench. Sugar?” 

“Please—one lump. Oliver is off for a final tramp with 
Sir Raphael Thring.” She took the cup from her hos¬ 
tess’s hand. “They leave for Mont St. Michel to-morrow. 
I’m sorry. I shall miss him.” 

“Indeed?” Mrs. Verney stirred her coffee. Under her 


194 


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lashes, darkened with care, she was watching Joceline. 
“It’s rather sudden, isn’t it?” 

“I believe it was Sir Raphael’s idea. He wants to see 
the Mount”—Mrs. Bickersteth was improvising—“and 
his time is limited. But it’s very annoying for me. It’s up¬ 
set all my plans to-morrow.” 

She waited, hoping and fearing, but Mrs. Verney picked 
up the ball. 

“You were going somewhere together?” 

“To Domfront. I’d so looked forward to it—ordered 
the car and everything! We were going there to lunch, 
to have plenty of time to see the place. It’s really too 
provoking of him! ” She took a sip of the hot coffee and 
resumed in her slow, pleasant voice, “I tried to get Lady 
Thring, when I met them this morning”—the colour 
warmed in her cheek. That was what Elsie called “a 
corker!” Still, in such a good cause—“but she thought 
it would be too tiring, and I don’t know any one else 
here.” 

Her breath failed her and she paused. Afterwards she 
told Piper that this was the “goodness of Providence.” 
For Mrs. Verney said calmly: 

“Would you like to take Joceline?” 

Mrs. Bickersteth showed her surprise, and covered it 
cleverly. 

“But can you spare her? I should love it! That is” 
—she turned her eyes to the girl—“if you’d like to come, 
my dear?” 

Joceline hesitated. “I should, only”—she glanced at 
her parent—“how would you dress after your bath?” 


YOUTH WINS 


i9S 

Mrs. Verney smiled. She had noticed the girPs reluc¬ 
tance. 

‘That’s simple. Lady Carnedin would lend me Marie. 
You go and enjoy yourself.” 

“Or won’t you let Piper help you?” Mrs. Bickersteth 
put in. 

“Better still! I like your old maid. Yes, it can all 
be arranged, and we can’t have you motoring alone. At 
what hour do you start?” 

“At eleven. Would that be too early?” 

“Not at all.” Mrs. Verney seemed to be thinking. “I 
suppose then, that Mr. Trench is leaving by the morning 
train?” 

Mrs. Bickersteth nodded. 

“Tiresome boy! Still, now I’m to have Joceline with 
me, I can afford to forgive him.” She finished her coffee, 
resisting the sharp temptation to look at the girl and a 
little puzzled by her silence. 

Surely she must know Oliver’s plans? If so, she acted 
well. Mrs. Verney would see to it that there was no 
time for a lover’s parting. Yet Trench had promised to 
say good-bye to his old friend before he left. Mrs. Bick¬ 
ersteth was so afraid of betraying her secret thoughts that 
she rose from the table, with the excuse of correspondence. 

“You won’t fail me?” she said to Joceline. “I expect 
you’ve often been there before? You must tell me all 
about Domfront.” 

“I will,” the girl responded limply. “It’s very kind of 
you to ask me.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth went upstairs, puzzled. 


196 YOUTH WINS 

She wrote a little line to Trench and gave Piper her 
instructions. 

“Whatever you do, don’t let them see you going down 
his passage,” she said. 

“I’d best do it now whilst they’re on the terrace,” Piper 
decided. “It would be safer. I rather wish, ma’am” • 
her voice was acid—“that you’d not offered me to dress 
her. I don’t understand powders and paints.” 

She wore an air of outraged virtue, and Mrs. Bicker- 
steth looked troubled. 

“It’s to help Mr. Trench,” she suggested, and saw 
Piper’s face clear. 

“Well, I’ll do my best, ma’am, I’m sure.” 

Cautiously, she performed her errand. The valet de 
chambre had been sweeping the floor and had gone out, 
leaving the door ajar. Piper, eyes narrowed, looked be¬ 
hind her. No one in sight! She slipped through the open¬ 
ing and placed the note on the dressing-table. As she was 
leaving the narrow room, which was in the far wing, she 
saw, thrown upon the bed, a pair of crumpled woollen 
socks. She gathered them up and, with the skill born of 
practice, ran her fingers into the toes. Just as she 
thought—two big holes! Here was her opportunity. 
Rolling them into a tight ball she thrust them under her 
left arm-pit and was out of the room, before the valet, 
surly, because he was late that day, rounded the sharp 
corner. 


CHAPTER XII 


HE car bearing the two ladies drove slowly through 



the town, for Bagnoles was full of life this morn- 


A ing, gay sunshades and summer frocks marking 
the way to the Tennis Club where a Tournament had 
commenced. But soon they left the Villas behind them 
and plunged into the cool forest. 

Mrs. Bickersteth glanced at the girl by her side, tran¬ 
quil, lost in dreams, her eyes fixed on the long white road 
where the shadows lay like gauze, strewn with a leafy pat¬ 
tern. 

What thoughts were passing through her mind and 
why were they both going to Domfront? She could not 
solve the mystery and she felt that Joceline should help 
her. 

“Now, my dear”—she broke the silence determinedly— 
“I think you might tell me everything. I’ve been very 
patient, haven’t I?” 

Joceline started and turned her head. Under the nar¬ 
row brim of the hat that matched the colour of her eyes 
and seemed to accentuate their depths, she returned Mrs. 
Bickersteth’s glance with affection. 

“You’ve been ever so kind. I’ll tell you all I know, but 
it doesn’t amount to much. I’m simply obeying Oliver’s 
wishes.” 

“You mean to say that he hasn’t told you the reason 


YOUTH WINS 


198 

for this expedition?” Mrs. Bickersteth felt cheated. 
'‘That you haven’t learnt what your mother said?” 

Joceline nodded. 

“He won’t tell me. Not yet. Except that she withholds 
her consent. But of course I expected that.” 

“And he’s off to-day to Mont St. Michel? I never heard 
anything so mad!” Mrs. Bickersteth sounded injured. 
“What is the meaning of it all?” 

“I can only guess,” said Joceline. “I think mother has 
told him something, but Oliver simply won’t believe it. 
Still, he wants her to think she’s succeeded, and that’s 
why he’s going away. But I doubt if it’s to Mont St. 
Michel. It’s somewhere nearer, where we can meet. We 
meant to have a talk this morning, but mother didn’t go 
to her bath and she kept me with her all the time. So 
I’m altogether in the dark. Oliver wouldn’t leave Bag- 
noles without sending me a line. Yet, last night he begged 
me not to worry, but leave everything in his hands. Above 
all, to get to Domfront. I was hoping you could enlighten 
me?” 

“I call it exasperating!” Mrs. Bickersteth’s nose was 
in the air, pronouncedly Roman. “He really might trust 
us.” 

“Oh, it isn’t that,” said the girl quickly. “It’s for our 
sakes, in case mother should ask questions. But I don’t 
feel quite happy about it. Why can’t we tell her openly 
that we mean to be married anyhow?” 

“Exactly.” The word was crisp. 

Mrs. Bickersteth leaned back and attacked the prob¬ 
lem anew. It was silent in the forest, save for the faint 
drone of the engine, the occasional note of a bird, or the 


YOUTH WINS 


199 

murmur of one of the little brooks that drained what had 
been unhealthy marshlands. She dodged, to avoid a 
dragon-fly with brilliant iridescent wings that was caught 
in the wind raised by the car and nearly driven into her 
face. 

“I can’t bear them/’ she told Joceline. “Ever since the 
day of my childhood when my brother caught one, chloro¬ 
formed it, cut off its head to make sure it was dead, and 
pinned it on to a cork for me. And when the chloro¬ 
form wore off it wriggled free and flew away—with the 
pin in its body!” 

“Without a head?” Joceline shuddered. 

Mrs. Bickersteth nodded solemnly. 

“Horrible! I can see it still.” 

They relapsed into silence. The subtle influence of the 
trees, so full of age and secret knowledge, induced a gentle 
melancholy. Here and there, the sunshine drifted, in 
long rays where the dust motes glittered, suggesting the 
streamers that find their way through dim windows in a 
cathedral. The broad boles on either side might have 
been pillars, supporting the roof, formed of branches that 
were curved in an arch like ancient groins. 

Joceline absently studied them. 

“If only I knew,” she murmured. 

There was trouble in her sapphire eyes, and Mrs. Bick¬ 
ersteth asked gently: 

“Knew what, my dear?” 

“If I’m doing right. It’s so difficult to see clearly. 
When I’m with Oliver it all seems natural. But at other 
times, when I think of mother, old and alone, and”—she 
caught her breath—“California’s so far away!” 


200 


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“But you told me she wouldn’t be alone,” came in the 
slow, comforting voice. “That your Aunt Therese would 
live with her and be thankful for a home, since she lost 
hers in the War. Your unmarried cousin too, and that 
she would look after your mother.” 

“Not as I do,” Joceline protested. “In the French way; 
very efficient, but, somehow, hard under the surface. 
That’s Aunt Therese, quite charming, but, for all that, a 
martinet. And then, there would be the question of 
money, and mother would expect them to help. The 
French are too frugal to be generous—I’ve learnt that at 
Mentone. My father’s nation both give and take with a 
better grace. They’re not so quick, nor such brilliant 
company, but there’s something sound in Anglo-Saxons.” 

“That’s true.” Mrs. Bickersteth looked thoughtful. 
“You think your mother will miss you badly. But we 
must look at both sides of the case. I can’t believe that 
it’s right for you to sacrifice yourself again. You must 
remember Oliver. He’s stood the test like a man. He 
loves you and he deserves his reward. I wonder what 
your mother told him?” 

“Ah, if I only knew that!” Joceline straightened her 
drooping shoulders. “If it’s anything cruel or untrue, then 
I shall have no more scruples. I believe it must be, from 
Oliver’s face, whenever I refer to it. But what can she 
say? He’s promised to tell me. I hoped it would be this 
morning. But mother prevented that. Oh!” She cov¬ 
ered her eyes with her hand. 

For a fast car had swung past them, going in the same 
direction, and a cloud of dust poured back, gritty and 
blinding, thick as smoke. 


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201 


“Abominable!” Mrs. Bickersteth gasped. “They’ve 
no business to go at that pace. * She hunted for her hand¬ 
kerchief, blinking. “That’s the way accidents happen, 
but our driver seems a cautious man.” 

Their own car was slowing down. Ahead of them was 
an open space, the junction of eight roads, known as the 
Carrefour de l’Etoile and flanked by a pair of Foresters’ 
lodges. It was a famous rendezvous for picnics and hunt¬ 
ing parties, for the woods held all manner of game, in¬ 
cluding stag and wild boar. 

The rond point was smothered in dust, the result of 
the racer passing through it. As it cleared, the pair in 
its wake could see two figures drawn up by the signpost. 
One of them stepped into the road and, raising his stick 
on high, waved it. 

“It’s Oliver!” cried Joceline. 

“No?” Mrs. Bickersteth leaned forward. “So it is!” 
A thrill ran through her. “I believe that’s Sir Raphael 
with him. Then they haven*t gone to Mont St. Michel! ” 
She poked the driver in the back with the end of her sun¬ 
shade. “Haltez!” she told him excitedly. 

He turned on the brakes and the car stopped as Trench 
came up, his face alight with secret mischief. 

“Good morning!” He shook Mrs. Bickersteth’s hand, 
but his eyes were for Joceline. “I wonder if you would 
give us a lift? We’re on our way to Domfront.” 

“You bad boy!” Mrs. Bickersteth chuckled. “And 
you told me— Get in! Ah, here’s Sir Raphael. How 
do you do? You remember Miss Verney?” 

“As if I could possibly forget her,” Thring responded 
gallantly. “Are you sure we shan’t be crowding you?” 


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He followed Trench into the car, at his old friend’s hearty 
invitation. “That young man’s done me out of a tramp,” 
he informed her, “but I’ve planned my revenge. I’m 
going to give you all lunch at Domfront. I won’t allow 
him to play host. It’s no good protesting”—his dark eyes 
twinkled—“as I ordered it by telephone. When we missed 
that train to Mont St. Michel!” He laughed outright at 
Mrs. Bickersteth’s expression. “We might as well get out 
of this dust? En avant /” he ordered the chauffeur. 

“Then you were going? Without even wishing me good¬ 
bye.” She looked reproachfully at Trench, whose eyes 
were fixed on her companion, a silent message passing 
between them. 

“Well, I got as far as the station,” he told her. “And 
then Sir Raphael rescued me, and we dropped my bag¬ 
gage at his hotel before we drove on here to meet you. 
He’s found me a room for the night, but officially I’ve 
left Bagnoles. You understand?” 

“I’m not dense!” Mrs. Bickersteth beamed at him. 

She decided that it had all been planned. He had told 
her she would see him again. But she wondered what 
lay behind it. Why was it necessary to delude every one? 

Sir Raphael filled the pause that followed. 

“Now, Miss Verney, you know this place. Give us the 
history of Domfront. My mind is a blank concerning it. 
Does it make pillow lace, or indulge in civil wars? Or 
simply sit in the sunshine and drink, without getting in¬ 
toxicated—the crowning virtue of the French?” 

Joceline smiled. 

“That’s its present occupation, I fancy. But, in the 
past, its role was war. Endless wars round the fortress. 


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203 

Richard Cceur de Lion stayed there, on his way to the 
Crusades, and it’s been besieged by William the Conqueror 
and by English troops centuries later. But its great¬ 
est exploit in history was the stand made by the Hugue¬ 
nots under the Comte de Montgomery. This was after 
the Massacre of St. Bartholomew.” 

She paused, for Sir Raphael’s eyes had narrowed. 

He nodded encouragingly. 

“Please go on with the story.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth glanced at Trench. He was grave 
now, watching the pair. In repose, his face betrayed 
strain; his lips were tightly pressed together. 

“I’m not quite sure about my numbers,” Joceline con¬ 
fessed, “but I believe that Montgomery held the citadel 
with 150 men, all told. Matignon’s army attacked in 
force, with siege guns, 5,000 strong. At last there were 
only forty left of Montgomery’s gallant band, but still 
they continued to hold Domfront. That was the second 
morning.” A faint colour warmed her cheeks. She 
seemed lost in the past. “They knelt down and the min¬ 
ister blessed them before they went to their places at 
dawn. At last all were wounded or slain but fourteen, 
and they had run out of powder. The enemy poured in 
through a breach in the walls, and they were forced to 
surrender.” 

“What an epic—fourteen against five thousand? 
Though perhaps that has been exaggerated. All for the 
sake of a split in creeds!” Sir Raphael shrugged his 
shoulder. “But men will do great things for religion. 
Why?” He smiled at the girl. 

“Perhaps”—her eyes were full of dreams—“because it 


2 04 YOUTH WINS 

appeals to the spirit. It isn’t politics, or loot. The reason 
for so many wars.” 

“The spirit?” Sir Raphael mused. “I suppose you 
mean for reward hereafter?” 

She caught him up, resenting his tone, faintly amused 
and cynical: 

“But wouldn’t that be politics? No”—she faced the 
issue bravely—“it’s something deeper than that. As deep 
as the sense of right and wrong.” 

“But supposing you were a Catholic, you’d say that 
Montgomery deserved it—that God had punished a 
heretic?” 

“Possibly.” She was frowning. 

“Then how do you discriminate between right and 
wrong in this case?” he asked her. 

“I don’t.” She looked up, her eyes sparkling, warmed 
by the argument. “I think all war is wrong. Certainly 
in a civilized age. But Montgomery saw it as his duty, 
and he fought against hopeless odds. That’s fine— 
that’s being a man!” she cried. 

“I quite agree. With the sentiment.” Sir Raphael 
watched her admiringly. “Still nowadays it would be 
called a general sacrificing his troops deliberately for his 
own renown.” 

“You forget,” said the girl swiftly, “that they were 
voluntary soldiers. He was a hero, leading a willing band 
of martyrs!” 

“Come, come!” Mrs. Bickersteth intervened, with her 
mistrust of controversy. “Arguments lead nowhere. I 
never will allow them at home, especially on religion. 
They only make people cross.” 


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205 

“I give in.” Sir Raphael smiled. “Still it’s tempting 
when one finds an opponent worthy of one’s steel. Which 
suggests that war is instinctive in mankind, the secret flaw 
in the League of Nations. My only hope is that when the 
affairs of the world are settled by arbitration the dispute 
will go the same way as most Commissions—peter out 
from sheer boredom! Talking of martyrs,” he went on 
blandly, “reminds me of an incident at our hotel the other 
day. I was talking to a French lady who apparently 
specialized in martyrs. She had lent me a book on the 
subject; a rather amazing document which seemed to ad¬ 
vance the theory that the majority had been French! I 
pointed out to her that, racially, most of the early martyrs 
were Jews. I never saw any one so indignant!” He 
laughed at the memory. “She was tres devote and an ar¬ 
dent anti-Dreyfusarde.” 

“Dear me!” Mrs. Bickersteth looked startled. “I al¬ 
ways thought of them as English. Anyhow, St. George 
was. Oh, look! What a view!” 

They had emerged from the forest onto a level plateau. 
Below them stretched mile upon mile of fertile country 
dotted by hamlets, each with its church tower, or spire, 
pointing up to the blue heaven. The sun had turned the 
river to silver, as it flowed towards the deep ravine in the 
great rock guarding Domfront. Soon they could see the 
grey mass of the citadel rise before them, with its im¬ 
mense broken walls, its fortified turrets and air of strength. 

“Nous voila! f> Sir Raphael rubbed his hands glee¬ 
fully against each other. “I’m feeling uncommonly like 
lunch. But it’s early yet. What does one visit first?” he 
enquired of Joceline. 


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“The Dungeon, I think—as an hors d’oeuvre!” 

“Ah, you’re hungry too?” 

“I am,” she confessed gaily. 

The movement through the honeyed air and the sense 
of her lover’s presence had brought all her youth to the 
surface. But she wished he had been her vis-a-vis, instead 
of Sir Raphael. 

Mrs. Bickersteth, too, was vexed by this. Why was 
Oliver so silent? He allowed the older man to monopo¬ 
lize the girl. She had long ago decided that Trench had 
only included the former in order to make the numbers 
even. Sir Raphael was destined to be her companion 
whilst the young people wandered off. 

“I shall see to that when we get there,” she thought. 
“These selfish old married men! They can’t keep away 
from a pretty girl.” 

But her kindly plans were foredoomed. 

Domfront seized them, like an ogre swallowing a tooth¬ 
some morsel. On their right, lay the Rue des Fosses- 
Plissons, where the houses are built into the wall, with 
tattered turrets surviving the ages and, before them, rose 
the twin towers between which the great gates of the cita¬ 
del had been wont to hang. 

Now they crawled up the Grande Rue, so narrow that 
there was barely room for the other slow procession to 
pass them, steep alleys on either hand, everywhere traces 
of the past, gaps formed by cannon-balls where trees had 
sprouted, finding a foot-hold, blackened walls with their 
eyeless sockets through which the arrows had poured 
forth. Domfront, sitting in the sunshine, grouped about 
its cafes, drinking, still held an air of being on guard. 


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207 


Mrs. Bickersteth peered about her, delighted. This 
was “foreign”! Such narrow streets, with oxen drag¬ 
ging the heavy carts, the women bare-headed, and the 
men in those lovely blue corduroys. She gave Domfront 
her patronage audibly: 

“Look at the funny little dogs, clipped like poodles! 
Aren’t they quaint? And what a lovely smell of 
coffee!” 

“The carbolic of France,” Thring murmured. “Yes, we 
should be grateful for it.” He looked at Joceline wickedly 
and the girl laughed, for a ranker odour rose from the 
hot streets, of rotting garbage, garlic, and houses ill- 
drained and unventilated. “Isn’t it curious,” he asked 
her, “that a people so quick, so intelligent, should yet be 
mediaeval in some of their habits? It’s partly poverty, of 
course, and an inverted sense of thrift. They would sooner 
save money than save health.” 

At last they came to the ruined Donjon of the Dukes 
of Normandy, frowning down on the Public Gardens, the 
doyen of the fourteen towers which still resist the hand 
of Time. They decided to send the car to the garage 
and walk the remainder of the way. Mrs. Bickersteth 
left the men to arrange this and moved forward with 
Joceline, a hand slipped through the girl’s arm. 

“Weren’t you surprised,” she said, “to see Oliver in 
the forest? Or had he given you a hint?” 

“No, I could hardly believe my eyes. Still, I had 
a feeling he’d be at Domfront. I’ve been longing to 
question him, but I didn’t like to, before your friend.” 

“Exactly! I wish we had Oliver to ourselves. But I’ll 
manage—you leave things to me.” 


2 o8 


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It was not so easy as she thought. They wandered 
round the broken walls, in a compact group, until Mrs. 
Bickersteth, irritated, sank down on a bench. 

“I can’t go any farther,” she panted. “But don’t you 
young people wait for me. Sir Raphael will see me to 
the hotel. What time is lunch?” she asked him. 

He looked at his watch. 

“Half an hour yet. Supposing—” He glanced at 
Trench. 

But Trench had already settled himself by Mrs. Bicker- 
steth’s side. 

“I’m going to stay with you,” he announced. “Alone 1” 

He smiled at Joceline and gave her a little nod. 

The girl, puzzled, turned to Thring. 

“A broad hint! Shall we take it?” 

“By all means. I’m still cramped from the drive. I 
suggest, too, that we find some place where we can get 
an apMij. I’m sure your throat’s full of dust? Mine 
is—so, come along!” 

“But, Oliver, you go too.” Mrs. Bickersteth strug¬ 
gled up. “Or I could walk as far as—” She stopped, for 
he had laid a hand on her arm. 

“I want to have a chat with you.” 

She sank down, half-mollified, but watched the pair 
walk briskly away, her expression still indignant. 

“I wish you hadn’t brought him,” she cried. “He’s 
spoiling everything!” 

“He isn’t.” Trench spoke earnestly. “I told him I 
wanted you to myself as soon as we reached Domfront. 
And I do.” He smiled at her, with affection. “We haven’t 
so much longer together.” 


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209 


“You mean you’re still going away?” She forgot Sir 
Raphael’s “selfishness.” “Oh, do tell me what you’ve 
planned?” 

“It depends,” he answered, “on to-night. I must have 
a long talk with Joceline. It will be quite easy now, as 
her mother thinks I’ve left the place. Of course we shan’t 
return there with you. You must drop us in the forest. 
I don’t want any one to know. The chauffeur won’t tell. 
I’ve squared him already.” 

“Then you never meant to go to the Mount? I guessed 
as much!” She was triumphant. “And Sir Raphael?” 

“We planned it together. I’ve told him—everything.” 
He spoke rather jerkily. “You can’t guess how good he’s 
been. I never thought he’d prove such a friend. I owe 
you that, as well.” 

“My dear boy.” She was touched. “But I wish I 
could understand. It’s all right between you two? You’re 
going to marry Joceline?” 

“You can bet your life on that.” He got up as a clock 
struck the quarter. “Hadn’t we better make a move? 
No good walking fast this weather. Will you have an 
arm?” He offered his left one. Mrs. Bickersteth took 
it gratefully. It brought back old times with Dicky, for 
her son had been devoted to her. “This reminds me of 
our first walk together,” Trench said, as they crossed the 
road. “The night you took me to the dance. It seems 
years ago now.” 

She looked up at him. 

“You’re not happy?” 

“I’m anxious,” he confessed. “But I think it’s going 
to come right. I’ve a good deal on my mind.” 


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“Is it something that Mrs. Verney said? If so, don’t 
believe her.” 

That was not betraying a confidence, but just a kindly 
hint, she decided. 

“I don’t, but I’m going to—” He checked himself. 
“Help me with Joceline? And I want this to be a cheery 
lunch. Sir Raphael has been so kind, and he’s standing 
treat to-day.” 

There was no doubt about the lunch being a success, 
thanks to the host. Thanks, too, to the girl he admired. 
The pair had returned in the best of spirits from their 
adventures in the town. These had included a descent 
on the bar of a little inn where Sir Raphael had won the 
confidence of the proprietor and had mixed two aperitifs 
after his own formula. A potent one, according to Joce¬ 
line! 

Not content with this, he insisted on filling up the 
glasses continually during the lengthy meal. 

“It will go to my head,” Joceline protested, when she 
realized what he was doing. “I generally drink water.” 

“This won’t hurt you,” Sir Raphael assured her. “And 
you told me it was the occupation of the citizens of Dom- 
front.” 

“But not to get intoxicated,” she reminded him gaily. 
“It’s delicious, all the same.” She lifted her glass. “Ta 
sante! )f She smiled at Trench, the love-light in her eyes. 

At that moment, Sir Raphael, leaning sideways to min¬ 
ister to the older guest, clumsily let the bottle slip. It 
crashed down on the floor and broke. 

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Bickersteth. 


YOUTH WINS 


2 11 


Joceline never turned a hair. She was laughing. 

“That’s a punishment! Domfront, keeping you in 
order.” 

“Then we’ll have another bottle.” He signalled to the 
waiter. “Just to show we’re not frightened.” 

“Oh, no! We can’t drink it.” Mrs. Bickersteth was 
shocked. “I won’t let you be so extravagant.” 

But the host had his way. 

“Well, only a little.” Mrs. Bickersteth capitulated. It 
was difficult to refuse the wine under the circumstances. 

Trench was the only abstemious one. He sat, rather 
silent, listening to the conversation, which was like a bril¬ 
liant overture with an occasional heavy chord supplied by 
Mrs. Bickersteth. He had never seen Joceline in such 
spirits. Sir Raphael seemed to spur her on, himself 
so fluent and cynical. She was witty and provocative, 
amazingly young, gay when challenged, swift and sure in 
her repartee. 

Mrs. Bickersteth listened, astonished. 

“Why, she’s clever,” she thought, “and I never guessed 
it! So different, away’ from her mother. But I hope 
she won’t go too far. I don’t think Oliver quite likes it. 
Oh, dear, he’s ordering liqueurs now! Not for me,” she 
said firmly, “I’ve had quite enough to drink.” And she 
looked at Joceline—a look that Elsie knew well. 

“No, thanks,” said the girl. “Only coffee. I love 
coffee! ” 

“I’ll toss you whether you have it or not?” Sir Raph¬ 
ael chuckled, and drew out a coin. “You’re too good a 
sportsman to refuse.” 

He spun. 


212 


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“Heads!” cried Joceline, and lost. She glanced at 
Trench with a little grimace. “You drink it for me?” 

“Oh, no—fair play!” Sir Raphael, laughing, gave the 
order. “I’ll let you off with a very small one and so old 
that you’ll think it’s milk!” 

“Come, come!” Mrs. Bickersteth rose, majestic, her 
broad face flushed. “A joke’s a joke, but I don’t approve. 
Not if Joceline doesn’t want it.” 

“What about having coffee outside?” Sir Raphael 
moved to the door. “I’ll go and see if it’s possible. It’s 
very hot in here.” 

He went out. Mrs. Bickersteth drifted to the window, 
her back turned to the lovers, who were standing together 
near the table. 

“Happy?” Oliver whispered. 

He glanced quickly down the empty room, for by now 
the other guests had departed, and laid a hand on the 
girl’s shoulder. 

“Always—with you.” Her hands went up impulsively 
and drew his head down to hers. “I love you so—I love 
you so!” 

He could hardly catch the words, but he kissed her 
stealthily and felt her lips cling to his. 

“Later,” he whispered tenderly. “I shall see you to¬ 
night. As soon as you can, come down to the garden gate. 
You’ll find me just beyond it.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth, fully aware of what was going on 
behind her, had her face glued to the panes. She was 
glad they had the chance at last! If only she could slip 
out. . . . 


YOUTH WINS 


213 

She sidled to the door. It was ajar. As she opened 
it wider, she came face to face with her host. 

“Oh!” She recoiled. 

“I was just coming in,” he explained suavely. “But 
since you’re ready—” He stood back. 

Mrs. Bickersteth sailed past him, the red flag flying in 
her cheeks. She had not the faintest doubt! He had been 
spying on his guests. She wished she had never come to 
Domfront. First, he had carried off the girl—whatever 
Oliver might say—given her some sort of cocktail, and 
then too much wine at lunch. If she took that cognac, 
she’d be ill—a nice end to the adventure! No wonder 
Oliver looked unhappy. A sudden luminous notion struck 
her. Drink! There was drink in the family. Sir Raph¬ 
ael had been testing her. Then he wasn’t a—what was 
the word? Her head was really quite muddled. She 
made a shot at it—“a Satire”! He wanted to see how 
much she could stand and the effect on her. 

She jumped, for he spoke close behind her. 

“Not much of a garden, but it will serve. Anyhow, 
there’s a breath of air, and it’s too dusty in the front. 
I’ll tell the waiter to bring some chairs.” 

Sir Raphael had a way of being obeyed on the spot. 
Soon Mrs. Bickersteth was seated under a primitive per¬ 
gola, the waiter dusting the iron table. He would have 
dusted the vine too, had Sir Raphael given the order! He 
spread a checked cloth evenly and departed for the cof¬ 
fee. 

From the house came Trench and Joceline. She had 
taken off her hat. Her hair shone like corn in the sun- 


214 


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shine; there was rich colour in her lips and an air of 
conquest about her, new to her, and of happiness. Her 
hand was slipped through her lover’s arm, and he was 
smiling at some jest. 

“What a picture,” murmured Sir Raphael. “It almost 
makes me believe in love. That girl’s devoted to him.” 
He read Mrs. Bickersteth’s thoughts. “At the moment, 
she doesn’t care if she shows it. How I envy them their 
youth!” 

He returned to the subject later as they drank their 
coffee in the shade. 

“If I were your age,” he said to Trench, “I know where 
I’d go for a honeymoon.” 

“I can guess!” Joceline looked up, smiling. “To that 
little inn we found this morning. Do tell them all about 
it.” 

Sir Raphael described the place, clinging to the ancient 
wall, built from stones detached from the ruins, weather¬ 
beaten yet spotlessly clean, thanks to the busy patronne. 
It possessed a straggling garden, and a view of the wide 
prospect below that embraced twelve communes. 

“Immense! It makes you hold your breath. And the 
whole place has an air of romance and mystery, of being 
forgotten by the world. But that’s not all.” He smiled 
at his audience. “The name is so wonderful. It fits 
it like a leaf to a rose. You’ll never divine it, so I’ll tell 
you. It’s called the ‘Hotel Champsecret.’ ” 

“No?” Trench, too, was dreaming. “Our secret or¬ 
chard. That’s strange.” 

Joceline’s hand stole out and found his under the rough 
cloth. 


YOUTH WINS 


215 

Mrs. Bickersteth nodded placidly. She was drowsy 
from the heat and lunch. 

“Here’s to them”—Sir Raphael raised his glass, ap¬ 
proving the colour of the cognac—“to the hosts of lovers 
that have been and will come to the Champ secret. To 
dream and to know—Paradise!” 

He drank, his eyes, liquid and compelling, on Joceline. 
Absently, she did the same. 

“Oh! . . . It’s stronger than I thought.” She put up 
her hand to her throat and laughed. “You mustn’t let me 
take too much. In vino veritas!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth’s eyes, half-closed, were fixed drows¬ 
ily on Trench. She caught a quick glance that passed 
between him and his host as the girl looked down at the 
glass in her hand. Instantly, she was on the alert. 

“You’d survive the test,” Sir Raphael assured her. 
In his voice was a note of gravity. “Is that a Judas tree 
there?” He pointed across the garden. 

The older woman ignored the remark. She had seen 
Trench gulp hard. For a moment, his hand on the table 
was clenched and he went pale under the tan. Then he 
tossed off his liqueur. 

That proved it, the onlooker decided. Her inspiration 
had been a true one. Living in America, he would be 
especially scared by drink! And a serious man would 
think of his children—that terrible taint in the blood. 
Yet how could Sir Raphael be sure? Anyhow, he seemed 
satisfied. If all were well, it was pleasanter than her 
earlier theory, that of illegitimacy. Rather regretfully 
she abandoned the “convict father” and became aware 
that Joceline was speaking. 


2l6 


YOUTH WINS 


“The name doesn’t suit it. The flower’s so lovely! I 
remember the first Judas tree I saw was at Avignon, years 
ago when we broke our journey there, going to the Riviera. 
I got up at six the next morning to go and dance on the 
bridge.” She began to sing, under her breath: 

“ ‘Sur le pont dAvignon 

On y danse a la ronde . . 

I’d rather like to dance now! I do feel so happy to-day.” 
She looked at Trench. “I feel free—as if I’d escaped from 
that dungeon!” 

“And so you have.” His voice was husky. “And no 
one shall ever find you again. We’ll hide you at the 
Champsecret” 

Sir Raphael smiled and glanced at his watch. 

“Do you know that it’s nearly half-past three?” 

“No?” Mrs. Bickersteth dragged herself up. “What 
ever will your mother say? You must get back to make 
her tea.” 

The girl’s bright face had clouded. She rose—Sir 
Raphael was watching her—and pulled on the soft, blue 
hat. Neatly, she thrust in the pin. 

“I suppose we must go. What a pity! But the best 
things never last.” 

“Don't they!” said Trench under his breath. 


CHAPTER XIII 


P IPER was worried. Those socks! 

She had learnt in the Steward’s Room to-day 
that Mr. Trench had left Bagnoles. Lady Carne- 
din’s maid was full of it and the young people’s flirtation. 
But of course it wasn’t good enough; no “family” and he 
lived on a farm! Still, it had helped to pass the time for 
Miss Verney during her mother’s cure. Not so quiet as 
she looked? They had been seen in the garden at night 
“carrying-on” by one of the waiters. Not that Marie 
could blame Miss Verney, poor young lady! It must be 
a dull life, always in her old mother’s pocket. Men were 
nothing to Marie—she shrugged her shoulders disdain¬ 
fully and darted a glance at her latest admirer, a good- 
looking valet, who had arrived with a gouty old gentle¬ 
man in tow—still, Bagnoles was the limit! She was glad 
they were off on the morrow for Paris and was looking 
forward to town and the Season. She wondered how 
Piper could exist, all the year round, in a country place? 
It must feel like being buried alive! 

Piper had responded tartly that her lady, too, went to 
London and visited her daughter there in a beautiful house 
with frequent parties. Miss Adela had married well, as 
of course she would, seeing who she was, her mother a 
cousin of Lord Paignton’s—a peer, not a baronet. 

With this, she had risen from the table, well-pleased, 
for Marie’s master came under the latter category. Marie, 
21 7 


218 YOUTH WINS 

trying to patronize her! And her real name Mary Smith, 
born in Clerkenwell and thirty-five if she was a day! 

In the quiet hour when the hall was empty, Piper went 
down to the bureau and looked into the Visitors’ Book. 
Trench had left no address. She wondered if Miss Verney 
would tell her? Her mistress probably would know it, 
but Piper shrank from the confession. She wished she had 
left the socks alone. It was easy to say that Mr. Trench 
had Master Dicky’s eyes and hair, but the old nurse knew 
this to be only a part of the truth. She loved the young 
man for himself; for his manner to her, never familiar, 
but kindly and interested. As if he judged her by a new 
standard: as an individual, apart from the fact that she 
was a valuable employee. This was rare in her ex¬ 
perience. She did not realize that it held the essence of 
Democracy, for the word was anathema to her. Like 
many another Englishwoman with a fondness for Tradi¬ 
tion, she confused it with Socialism, “Down-with-the- 
gentry!” and Revolution. 

If Labour came in, she understood, there would be no 
more “good service.” The ladies would have to scrub and 
cook and act as nurses to their children, in order to pay 
higher doles, maternity benefits and a taxation levied es¬ 
pecially at their class, so huge that it would wipe it out. 

So, no Democracy for Piper! She hoped to die in Tor- 
lish Manor, her last years glorified by a sitting-room and 
black silk dresses, and have a “proper” funeral. Her old 
mistress would see to that, and you couldn’t trust the “new 
gentry.” They were “chancy” and all for show. Look 
what the Fowneses had done, engaging Mr. Gallup, who 
had been twenty years with their predecessors, then turn- 


YOUTH WINS 


219 

ing him out because he was lame! They couldn’t keep a 
butler, she’d heard, who went “dot and one” over the 
parquet. But that was what you’d expect of folk who 
had their stores from London, cheating the local grocer— 
though Mr. Miggles had got it back on the night the elec¬ 
tric plant went wrong and he found he was “out of” oil 
and candles! And hadn’t there been a joke about it— 
every one in the village chuckling. Serve them right! 
Piper smiled at the reflection. All Lady Fownes could 
produce was night-lights, and by their radiance they had 
dined. 

She decided to go for a little walk. There were cakes 
to be bought for tea and Mrs. Bickersteth would be 
hungry after her long motor drive. She pinned her hat 
on securely, donned her best black coat—a present from 
her dear lady—and set forth, her purse in her hand. 

At the corner of the road, she found two boys maltreat¬ 
ing a cat and spoke to them loudly and severely. The 
strange tongue had its effect, for the cat slipped away into 
safety. But how rude French boys could be! 

She lingered in front of the florist’s shop and turned up 
her nose at the butcher’s—white rosettes and no decent 
sirloins—and eventually arrived at the smart pastry¬ 
cook’s. Guyot’s was deserted. She went in and chose 
the cakes, pointing to them with her finger; a madeleine 
and a brioche, both “plain and wholesome,” and hesitated 
before a tray that held Mrs. Bickersteth’s pet weakness: 
choux a la creme. Not good for her, still— Piper was 
in an indulgent mood. 

Soon, she was plodding homewards. Very few people 
were about, and at the corner she recognized those boys 


220 


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with their queer tam-o’-shanters without any bob on the 
top. Piper decided they must have lost them! They were 
whispering together near the fence. She passed them, 
erect and dignified. Suddenly she felt the carton holding 
the cakes snatched from her hand! 

She wheeled round, to give chase, and saw it was hope¬ 
less. No policeman about—she could have wept! All 
that good money wasted and nothing for the mistress’s 
tea. With a tight mouth, she retraced her steps. 

The same young lady served her at Guyot’s. Again she 
went through her pantomime. As she came out, she heard 
laughter behind her. It was too humiliating! She de¬ 
cided to keep the theft a secret and pay for the new cakes 
herself. 

This time she reached the hotel in safety and was 
ready when she heard Mrs. Bickersteth’s step in the corri¬ 
dor. She opened the door triumphantly, the kettle send¬ 
ing forth steam, the cakes arranged on their little platter. 
Tempting—her own cakes! 

“Well, ma’am?” She was beaming. 

“A lovely drive,” Mrs. Bickersteth droned, “but I’m 
simply falling to sleep, Piper. The air was so strong to¬ 
day.” She yawned as the maid drew off her coat. “It 
seems to have gone to my head!” 

“Then you’d best lay down, ma’am,” Piper advised. 
“I’ll bring your tea to the bedside.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth willingly agreed. Soon she was lean¬ 
ing against the pillows. 

“Tea will be nice. I can’t think why I’m so thirsty! 
Thank you, Piper.” She took the cup from her hands. 
“Plenty of milk. It must be the dust.” 


YOUTH WINS 


221 


Piper obeyed. Then she handed the cakes. 

“Your favourite, ma’am. A cream chew” 

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Bickersteth recoiled. “I really 
couldn’t eat anything more. I’ve had such a big 
lunch.” 

Piper’s face went black as thunder. This was the 
climax—ingratitude! She could have slapped Mrs. 
Bickersteth, like one of her own children, turning up its 
nose at good food. Silently, her fingers shaking, she put 
the cakes into a tin. 

“I’m going to tell you a great secret.” Mrs. Bicker¬ 
steth, eyes half-closed, drained her cup thankfully. “Who 
do you think we met in the forest?” No reply. Mrs. 
Bickersteth wondered. “Mr. Trench—with Sir Raphael 
Thring! And they drove with us and gave us lunch.” 

“Yes’m.” Piper, head averted, poured water into the 
tea-pot. She sounded as lifeless as a dried haddock! 

“Oh, dear, she’s in a temper again,” thought poor Mrs. 
Bickersteth. “I must try and bring her round, but I wish 
she wouldn’t—it’s so dull” Out aloud, she persevered: 
“You mustn’t tell any one this, Nanna, but I felt I could 
trust you” 

Piper slapped down the tea-pot lid. 

“I’m sure I hope so. After all these years, ma’am.” 

She drew herself up, plainly insulted. 

Mrs. Bickersteth’s head buzzed. She felt she cou 7 d 
not cope with the mood. 

“There”—she laid down her empty cup—“now I think 
I’ll have a nap.” 

She closed her eyes, but Piper lingered, collecting the 
tea-things and putting away outdoor clothes strenuously. 


222 


YOUTH WINS 


At last, from the bed, came a snore. She wheeled round 
and stared at the sleeper. Yes, it was genuine. 

“Heartless!” she muttered, and went out. 

Across the darkness of her mood, flashed a tiny ray of 
light. Mr. Trench could not have left Bagnoles. But 
how was she to get at him? 

Mrs. Bickersteth woke, an hour later, feeling refreshed. 
Her happiness over the young people was slightly dimmed 
by Piper’s behaviour. She decided to dress for dinner 
early, without assistance, and go down. It would be a 
lesson to Piper, who thought herself invaluable. 

She went to a drawer for some clean stockings and 
made a strange discovery. Among the neat little rolls was 
a pair of woollen socks! Men’s socks? How extraor¬ 
dinary! They were wedged in between two pairs of stock¬ 
ings recently washed and darned by Piper. Could they 
have been packed by mistake? Mrs. Bickersteth took 
the socks to the light to see if they belonged to her hus¬ 
band. At that moment there came a tap at the door. 
She looked wildly around her and pushed the socks into 
her knitting bag. She dared not risk an inquiry which 
might imply carelessness. 

“Come in!” she called, and Piper entered, bearing a 
can of hot water, determined her mistress should sleep 
no longer! 

In a stony silence, she fastened the hooks. She was 
longing to ask for Trench’s address. She must find out 
in some other way. But how, since her lips were sealed? 

She watched Mrs. Bickersteth go forth and the tears 
welled up in her eyes. All these years—and to be so hard? 


YOUTH WINS 


223 


Not even a turn of the head and: “I shall be up early, 
Piper.” That’s what one got for faithful service. . . . 

Totally unaware of this, Mrs. Bickersteth gave a sigh 
of relief when she reached the lift. She dreaded “scenes.” 
Much better not to notice it and Piper would “come 
round.” Poor old soul! Perhaps she’d been lonely, with 
her mistress out for so long. Mrs. Bickersteth decided to 
take her for a drive to-morrow, or the day after. Little 
she guessed what the drive would be! 

In the lounge, a surprise awaited her, for there was 
Mrs. Verney, talking to Lady Carnedin. She smiled at 
Mrs. Bickersteth and introduced her two friends. 

“I hear you’ve had a lovely day. So good of you to take 
Joceline.” She was evidently in the best of moods. “And 
your nice old maid was very helpful. What a time 
she has been with you! She was telling me all about 
your home. It sounds such a dear old place. Do sit 
down.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth, feeling a little guilty, took the re¬ 
maining chair. 

They discussed the cure, Lady Carnedin relieved that 
her own was over, and the conversation turned to Paris 
where the latter was to stay for a week. She gave Mrs. 
Bickersteth the address of a certain cheap hat-shop at the 
back of the Avenue de l’Opera—“as good as those in the 
Rue de la Paix”—and recommended a quiet hotel where 
she always stayed, in the Cours Albert Premier, patronized 
by her brother, the Bishop. Mrs. Bickersteth took down 
both addresses. 

“You’ll be lonely to-night,” said Mrs. Verney. “I hear 
your young friend has gone. I think he might have wished 


YOUTH WINS 


224 

11s good-bye. But he went off rather suddenly; to Mont 
St. Michel, the porter told me.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth was relieved when, at this juncture, 
Joceline appeared, wearing a new frock. 

She looked lovely to-night, for the wind had touched 
her cheeks with a delicate bloom and the almond green 
georgette enhanced the tone of her hair and eyes. 

The “colour of Spring”—the elderly lady recalled 
Madame de MesniPs speech. Instead of Autumn—that 
early illusion when the girl in her russet gown had first 
appeared by her parent’s side in the long dining-room. 
How love had changed her and quickened her beauty, 
breaking the spell laid upon her. But then life was full of 
Romance, if people only had eyes to see it. 

“We bought that yesterday in the town,” Mrs. Verney 
announced airily. “So I made her put it on. Turn round, 
Joceline! Now, isn’t that a pretty back? Not an ‘after¬ 
thought,’ like so many English dresses, which suggest that 
the material ran short. There should be mystery in a 
back.” She smiled and patted her white curls. “So that 
you long for a sight of the wearer. So many women con¬ 
centrate on their effect when they enter a room, whereas 
it’s really more important to leave a pleasant memory 
My mother, who was French, used to say that it needed 
‘discretion to advance, but elegance to retreat.’ She was 
of the old school. Mercifully she was taken before the 
Era of Legs! Yes, dear”—she glanced at her daughter— 
“you’re looking very sweet to-night.” 

Joceline’s blue eyes were wistful. Mrs. Bickersteth 
could guess her thoughts; that, although she mistrusted 
her parent, she felt the burden of deceit. The old love 


YOUTH WINS 


225 

warred with the new. It must have cost her an effort to 
wear her mother’s gift this evening. 

Lady Carnedin consulted her watch, for the Verneys 
were dining with her in the restaurant of the hotel, early, 
in order that she might retire to bed in good time before 
her journey. 

“Shall we go?” Mrs. Verney divined her thought. She 
rose to her feet, as the hostess agreed and shook out the 
folds of her silvery gown, suggestive of La Pompadour. 
Where the lace fichu was crossed on her bosom was a 
little wreath of yellow rosebuds with frosted leaves, and 
she wore an old necklace of beautifully-set topaz that 
carried out the same note of colour. “Am I tidy?” she 
asked Joceline. 

“Perfect.” The girl’s voice was strained. 

“Then, au revoir!” The old lady smiled sweetly at 
Mrs. Bickersteth. “We shall meet later on.” 

Off she went on her high heels, frail yet somehow sug¬ 
gesting a frank enjoyment of life and a sense of her own 
importance as a decoration to the scene. It was wonder¬ 
ful, Mrs. Bickersteth thought, how she could carry off 
her clothes, always costly and picturesque, without effort, 
serenely assured, like a china figure, most rare and pre¬ 
cious, released from its glass case. 

Her own face wore a frown. She was sorry for Joce¬ 
line and a little troubled in her conscience. What a pity 
it was that Mrs. Verney’s love for her daughter was so 
selfish. How happy everything might be! Mrs. Verney 
could let the Mentone Villa and spend her winters in 
California and Joceline could return with her, for a visit 
home, at intervals. In these days, the voyage was easy 


226 


YOUTH WINS 


and surrounded with every luxury, which they could 
easily afford. Instead of this, there would be a rupture. 
Mrs. Verney would not forgive her daughter. Perhaps 
they might never meet again. . . . 

The gong disturbed her train of thought and she made 
her way to the dining-room. The meal seemed endlessly 
long to-night, with no one to talk to or to watch. The 
service dragged in her corner and she was thankful when, 
at length, she could rise from the table. 

In the lounge, bridge had already started, Mrs. Verney 
erect as a willow wand, had begun a battle with the 
General who was one of her adversaries. 

“Je double!” Mrs. Bickersteth heard her say, as she 
passed to capture a favourite chair out of the draught, in 
a good light. 

Joceline was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Bickersteth 
opened Adela’s book at Chapter II and started again, 
determined to do her duty. She hoped she would soon get 
to “the story.” At present it was all about people’s 
thoughts; not what they did, but why they acted in this 
curious and unnatural fashion. What made it all the 
more confusing was that their impulses were derived from 
hereditary influences and she had to work back patiently 
to what the parents thought—not did. This was compli¬ 
cated by a mysterious factor which the author called “en¬ 
vironment.” Just as she saw a faint gleam of romance 
the novel switched off into medical matters connected 
with what Mrs. Bickersteth evaded as “morals.” The 
writer openly called it “sex.” But still she persevered. 
Mrs. Bickersteth’s eyes widened. Suddenly she closed the 
book. 


YOUTH WINS 


227 


“Disgusting! ” Her cheeks were flushed. “I can’t think 
how Adela could have sent it. If that’s modern, I’m glad 
I’m old-fashioned.” 

From where she sat she could see Mrs. Verney’s face 
in profile. At this minute the little old lady looked like 
a sparrow-hawk scenting its prey. Her tiny hands, curled 
round the cards, with their pointed nails, might have been 
talons. She was winning and, in her smile, was something 
acquisitive and ruthless. 

“No, I don’t like her,” thought the spectator. “I can 
imagine her being cruel. That charm is only superficial.” 

She leaned back, and her mind turned to those two who 
now must be close together, in the violet shadows that 
veiled the lake. If only Joceline were her daughter, how 
she would help her at this crisis. For, after all, it was 
not long descent or money that made a good husband. 
It was character and unselfishness. If Elsie, now— Mrs. 
Bickersteth felt a strange, disturbing doubt. California 
was “a long way off” . . . 

This revived another problem. What was to be done 
about Elsie? There had been no more letters, but she 
would have to face the decision when she met her husband 
in Paris. If she stayed in Paris? There was Joceline, 
and she had offered to chaperon her. She might go 
straight home, if Trench sailed from St. Malo, and meet 
the young couple in London. 

“Dear me, what a muddle it is!” She sighed. “I wish 
they’d make up their minds and that all this secrecy 
were over. Still, it’s no good planning ahead.” 

She slipped lower in the chair. Imperceptibly, her eyes 
closed. The hum of voices rose and fell in a murmur, 


228 


YOUTH WINS 


soothing as the sea. She slept, her chin on her high 
bosom, the jet comb thrust forward, like the horns of a 
goat, butting, her plump hands with the emerald ring 
covering the “work of genius.” 

She woke with a start at the sound of her name. Mrs. 
Verney was bending over her. 

“Oh!” She put up her hands to her hair and straight¬ 
ened the loosened comb. “Why, I must have been 
asleep! ” 

She gazed round her. The lounge was empty, swept 
clear of the crowd of guests, save for herself and the old 
lady, who looked more hawk-like than ever. 

“I thought it better to rouse you now. It’s past eleven,” 
said Mrs. Verney. “I can’t think where Joceline is.” 

“Joceline?” Mrs. Bickersteth started and collected her 
scattered wits. “Past eleven?” She struggled up. “You 
don’t say so! She hasn’t come in?” 

“No. I sent upstairs to see if she could be there— 
we played late.” Mrs. Verney’s face was haggard, but 
she spoke with dignity. “It’s very thoughtless of her. 
Besides she has been out all day. She might consider 
her mother now. I went to the end of the terrace, but 
there’s no one there. I can’t understand it. Do you 
think she’s gone to the other hotel?” 

All sorts of wild ideas had been flashing through Mrs. 
Bickersteth’s mind. An elopement in earnest—was this 
the plan? She welcomed her companion’s excuse. 

“Possibly. There’s dancing to-night. Yes, I expect she 
met the Thrings and they persuaded her to stay.” 

“But I thought you said he had gone away, with Mr. 


YOUTH WINS 229 

Trench, to Mont St. Michel?” Mrs. Verney’s eyes nar¬ 
rowed. 

“I’d forgotten that.” Mrs. Bickersteth felt more and 
more uncomfortable. “Still, Lady Thring is still there. 
She’s taking the cure—” She broke off, her attention 
caught by the swinging door. “Ah, here she is! ” she cried 
with relief. 

But the next moment it turned to dread. 

Joceline stood on the threshold, a thin black cloak 
drawn round her that seemed to accentuate her pallor. 
There were dark shadows under her eyes. Her hair, 
ruffled by the breeze, made a halo about her set face. 
She looked like an avenging angel! 

“Joceline!” Mrs. Verney called. “Where have you 
been? Do you know the time?” 

“Yes.” The girl moved forward, her eyes filled with 
a cold anger, unflinchingly fixed on her parent. “I’m 
ready. Ready to wait on you.” 

Deliberate intention was in the words. Mrs. Bicker¬ 
steth was horrified. 

“My dear,” she said, “your mother’s been anxious.” 

It was both a hint and a gentle reproof, but Joceline 
ignored her intervention. 

“If it’s late,” she said to Mrs. Verney, still with that 
searching, inimical glance, “you’d better go to bed.” 

The little old lady seemed to droop. She felt with her 
hand for the back of the chair, grasped it and drew a flut¬ 
tering breath. 

“I don’t—feel well,” she murmured. 

Mrs. Bickersteth, vexed and anxious, offered her a sup¬ 
porting arm. 


230 


YOUTH WINS 


“You’re tired.” She frowned at Joceline, but the girl 
retained her stony composure. 

“I expect you’ve had too much bridge. If you’re deli¬ 
cate, why do you do it?” 

Mrs. Verney drew herself up. 

“I don’t require your opinion.” Her voice was clear 
and dignified. “You forget yourself, Joceline.” 

She turned and, without any further symptom of weak¬ 
ness, walked with Mrs. Bickersteth, a light hand on the 
latter’s arm, in the direction of the lift. 

Joceline followed. The night porter took them up to 
the first floor. 

Mrs. Verney, unaided, stepped out. 

“Good night.” Her black eyes had a smouldering fire 
in them as she shook hands with her neighbour. “I hope 
you won’t be too tired.” 

“Oh, no. Good night.” Mrs. Bickersteth felt unequal 
to the situation. 

She turned to intercept the girl, but she slipped past, 
with a swift sign behind Mrs. Verney’s back, and followed 
in her parent’s wake. 

Mrs. Bickersteth, sorely troubled, made her way to her 
room. She wanted time to think, and she couldn’t even 
confide in Piper, who received her with a martyred expres¬ 
sion and a glance at the clock. 

“Yes, it’s late,” her mistress admitted. “But I was 
kept. As soon as you’ve got me out of my dress, you’d 
better go to bed, Nanna. I mustn’t miss my bath again.” 

She was thinking solely of herself, but the words went 
to Piper’s heart. 


YOUTH WINS 


231 


“You needn’t be afraid, ma’am, that I shall oversleep 
myself.” She shook out the skirt viciously. “It has only 
happened once . And I’m not as young as I used to be! ” 

“No.” Mrs. Bickersteth’s voice was absent. “We 
none of us are.” Her thoughts had returned to Mrs. Ver- 
ney. “Thank you, Piper. I’m sorry I kept you up so 
late.” 

Silence. She looked behind her. The door was closing 
on Piper’s back. She hadn’t even lit the night-light! 

Mrs. Bickersteth did this herself, but recalled the omis¬ 
sion later as she was scrambling into bed. For there came 
a soft tap at the door. She sighed and lowered herself 
again onto the floor, to patter across and turn the handle. 
It must be Piper—repentant! She peeped through the 
crack as she opened the door and there stood Joceline! 

“Oh, it’s you! Come in, my dear, if you don’t mind 
my being undressed.” 

“I’m so sorry,” murmured the girl. “But I had to see 
you. It’s important—a message from Oliver.” 

“That’s all right.” Mrs. Bickersteth was wideawake 
now. “But I think I’ll just get back into bed, because 
of my rheumatism, and you can sit on the side.” She 
proceeded to do so. “I’m glad you’ve come. I was worry¬ 
ing. Just give me that fleecy shawl. Would you like to 
turn on the light?” 

“No, we can see quite well as it is.” She wrapped the 
shawl round her friend’s shoulders. “May I really sit 
here?” She perched herself at the foot, drawing up a 
slender knee and clasping her hands round it. Her eyes, 
still mutinous, met the kind ones surveying her under the 


YOUTH WINS 


232 

tight little rolls that would wave the grey hair on the mor¬ 
row. “Oliver wants you to know our plans, and I couldn’t 
come to you before.” 

“How is your mother?” Mrs. Bickersteth felt anxious. 
“She’s quite well—now,” said Joceline coldly. 

“My dear, I hope you haven’t quarrelled?” 

“It’s beyond a quarrel,” Joceline answered. “I know 
at last what she says” 

“What?” Mrs. Bickersteth quivered. 

“A wicked lie,” said the girl slowly. “I shall never for¬ 
give her, or love her again.” 

“Oh, hush!” The older woman was shocked. “You 
shouldn’t! She’s still your mother.” Joceline’s lips curled. 
“Yes, I mean it. But tell me everything, my child?” 

She saw Joceline shake her head. A lock of hair fell 
forward and she brushed it back impatiently. 

“I want you to give me a promise first. Not to breathe 
a word, to any one, before twelve o’clock to-morrow. 
Oliver insists on this. Will you?” 

Mrs. Bickersteth hesitated. Supposing she did not ap¬ 
prove of the plan? There was terrible trouble brewing. 
She could feel it in the air. Still, for so short an interval? 
She gave in. 

“I’ll promise you.” 

“On your honour?” the girl insisted. 

“On my honour.” Mrs. Bickersteth’s voice was solemn. 
“Ah!” Joceline drew a deep breath. “I knew you 
would. And you’ve been so kind that we couldn’t go and 
leave you, wondering what had happened to us.” 

“Go?” 

“Yes. I’m off to-morrow, early, to join Oliver.” 


YOUTH WINS 


233 

Mrs. Bickersteth struggled up from her comfortable 
position, a look of horror on her face. 

“Not alone? You can’t. It isn’t proper! Or perhaps 
the Thrings— You mean their hotel?” 

“Oh, no, I’m leaving Bagnoles. But I can’t tell you 
where. You mustn’t know. Mother would get it out of 
you. Listen!” She caught Mrs. Bickersteth’s hand and 
leaned forward urgently. “It’s the only way. It was my 
plan. Now that I know—know what she’s done. All 
these years”—her voice rose—“whilst I’ve trusted her, 
waited on her like a servant, sacrificed my youth to her! 
The cruel, wicked treachery—” She choked, but went on 
again: “There’s only one way to punish her. Money— 
she loves money. And besides, it’s mine. My father 
meant me to have it. Very well!” She threw up her 
head. “I shall take it now, for Oliver’s sake. It will make 
all the difference to him. I won’t marry him without it! 
I’ve told him that and at last he agrees.” 

“You’ll take it without your mother’s consent?” Mrs. 
Bickersteth was trying to follow. “But can you? When 
it says in the will—” 

Joceline interrupted her. 

“I shall force her to give her consent.” In the shadows 
thrown by the night-light she seemed to shoot up, her 
golden head like a flower on its stem, quivering with life 
and passion. “Don’t you understand?” Her voice rang. 
“Until mother allows the marriage, I’m going to live with 
Oliver!” 

“Live with him?” Mrs. Bickersteth gasped. She had 
never been so shocked in her life. “You can’t! Think of 
your reputation? I shall not allow it”—the bed vibrated 


YOUTH WINS 


234 

with her virtuous indignation—“I shall speak to Oliver.” 

“You won’t have a chance. He’s off. That’s why he 
sent me to tell you. It’s all arranged. We’ve made up 
our minds. We’re not children—we know what we’re 
doing. But—I quite understand what you think.” Her 
cheeks were flaming now. 

Mrs. Bickersteth wisely changed her tactics. In vain, 
she pleaded with the girl. 

“Supposing your mother refuses?” she wailed. “She 
might—you can never tell. Where would you be then?” 

“She won’t refuse. We shall give her a week to send 
us her consent in writing, care of the Credit Lyonnais. If 
she doesn’t she’ll know the next step: we shan’t hide any 
longer! Oh, I’ve thought it all out.” Her face darkened. 
“I shall write to the old vicar at home and tell him exactly 
how we’re placed—that it all lies in mother’s hands. She 
would never face a public scandal, for it to be known all 
over Norfolk. There’s nothing against Oliver. Every 
one would realize that it all hinges on the money.” 

“And you’d let them think that of your mother?” Mrs. 
Bickersteth recoiled. “I never heard anything so 
wicked!” 

Joceline slipped down from the bed. She stood, facing 
her accuser, head high, eyes defiant. 

“I can’t help that. It’s my turn now. She frightened 
away Horace and Terence, but she’s met her match in 
Oliver.” 

“And supposing it kills your mother? You’ve forgotten 
her weak heart.” 

“Have I!” The girl actually laughed. “Oh, she’ll be 
ill if it’s convenient! Did you see her in the hall, pretend- 


YOUTH WINS 


235 


ing? I made a discovery to-night. I found the prescrip¬ 
tion for the cachets she takes when she has a heart at¬ 
tack. I was brushing her coat before I went out and it 
was in the pocket. She’s never shown it to me, so I read 
it. And what do you think it was?” Mrs. Bickersteth 
held her breath, hypnotized by the speaker’s expression. 
“A mild dose of bromide and bismuth! What you’d give 
to an hysterical girl.” She threw out her hands fiercely. 
“And I thought it would raise her from the dead!” 

“No!” Mrs. Bickersteth’s last hope crumbled. She 
was overwhelmed by the change in Joceline. This was 
what came, she thought, when age made war on youth, 
denying it hope or fruition. There was a breaking-point, 
when tradition was swept to the winds of heaven and reck¬ 
lessness took its place. “My dear, my dear, it’s too dread¬ 
ful! You mustn’t do it. It spells ruin. I’m not taking 
your mother’s part. I’m thinking of you and the fu¬ 
ture. Even if you succeed in your scheme, there’ll be all 
this behind you. How can you expect Oliver to respect 
you? Love is all very well, but it must be based on re¬ 
spect in marriage.” 

“Oliver?” Joceline smiled. “I’m not afraid! There’s 
no one like him. He’s wonderful! Why shouldn’t he 
have his happiness? He deserves it. And so do I. 
You’ve had it—a husband and children. Why should it 
be denied me? Because I have a cruel mother? Oh, it’s 
all very well to talk of love, but there’s justice as well. 
You’ve been just and so your children honour you. You 
haven’t tried all your life to break them—they don’t feel 
helpless in your power. So they’re happy with you— 
Oh, don’t cry! I’m sorry—I hate hurting you.” She 


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leaned forward impulsively, her hands on Mrs. Bicker- 
steth’s shoulders, and kissed the cheeks wet with tears. 
“Forgive us! Some day you’ll understand.” 

Before Mrs. Bickersteth could collect her scattered wits, 
the girl had retreated. She vanished in the dark shadows. 

“Joceline!” she gasped. “Comeback! I can’t let you 
go like this.” 

All she heard was the sound of the door gently closed. 

She was so upset that her limbs would not move. She 
lay there, propped against the pillows, the tears rolling 
down, unchecked. Those two, who had grown so dear 
to her, living in sin—unrepentant. ... 

At last, she found her handkerchief, wiped her eyes and 
regained control. 

“I must see her in the morning,” she thought. “Before 
I go to my bath. I’d never have dreamed it of Oliver! 
If only I knew where he was and what—” She started, 
eyes wide. 

Only now did it flash across her that the secret had 
been in her grasp and she had let it escape her. Her ma¬ 
ternal instincts had tripped her up, the sense of the girl’s 
moral danger outweighing curiosity. 

For what had Mrs. Verney “said”? 


CHAPTER XIV 



iWICE before she set forth for her bath did Mrs. 


Bickersteth furtively steal along to Joceline’s 


room and tap on the door, but with no response. 
In consequence she missed the bus which she usually took, 
in Mrs. Verney’s company, and saw no signs of that lady. 
For this she was devoutly thankful. 

On her return, when she left the lift, she slipped again 
down the corridor. Now the door stood wide open. A 
valet de chambre was sweeping the floor, collecting the lit¬ 
ter left from packing. It was too late; the bird had flown! 

After the first touch of despair, a sharp reaction set in. 
Mrs. Bickersteth was exasperated. She washed her hands 
of the truants. No good making herself quite ill, and this 
morning she felt as bad as when she had arrived at Bag- 
noles. Sir Raphael’s hospitality had stirred up the demon, 
gout. 

No wonder she was irritable, she told herself. It was 
the worry and the sense of her own powerlessness. She 
could not even talk to Piper until the clock should strike 
twelve. And Piper was now in her nicest mood. She 
had apologized, early that morning, at the sight of her 
mistress’s swollen eyes—which she put down to her own 
behaviour! 

A sudden longing to get out of Bagnoles seized Mrs. 
Bickersteth. She was dreading a meeting with Mrs. Ver- 
ney, impossible to avoid if she lunched in the hotel. It 


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was a perfect day and the happy thought came to her of 
an expedition into the country. 

She decided to go to La Ferte-Mace—only twenty min¬ 
utes by train—in her old clothes, with Piper. But not to 
take lunch. She was sick of fowl and, unless she tipped 
the headwaiter, it was sure to be a leg! So that one saved 
nothing. 

Piper approved the scheme, especially when she learnt 
there were shops. Drives at Bagnoles left her cold. You 
couldn’t for ever look at the trees, and the roads in France 
seemed deserted, save for motor cars and dust. At her 
suggestion, they went second-class and felt economical, 
which added to the pleasure. In these times it was right 
to be careful. 

The slow train tipped them out into the centre of the 
town, a matter for congratulation, for the sun was at its 
zenith. Moreover, it was market-day and the narrow 
streets were congested, but this added to the sense of ad¬ 
venture. In the main square a fountain was playing. 
Picturesquely grouped about it were the little stalls and 
the big umbrellas under which, sphinx-like but avid, an¬ 
cient dames were nursing fowls, baskets of eggs and fresh 
cheeses, or bargaining vociferously. Fruit and green stuff 
showed up gaily against the dark shawls of the vendors, 
adding a brilliant note of colour: the tart red strawberries 
of the woods, purple figs and oranges, whilst great pump¬ 
kins that suggested half-forgotten fairy tales sprawled on 
the pavement, in ochre glory, with gashes where a slice 
had left the apricot heart revealed. 

Mrs. Bickersteth was charmed, Piper a shade critical, 
though she approved the Normandy caps, so exquisitely 


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laundered, that surrounded the dark, wrinkled faces, with 
their black eyes, arched noses, and the curiously virile air 
of these women, so unlike the Bagnoles social set. 

They wandered in and out of the turmoil and occa¬ 
sionally made a purchase: pillow-lace edging for under¬ 
linen, some little dishes for oeufs au plat in coarse blue and 
white faience, and finally, the food for lunch. 

Hot, exhausted, but happy, they settled down at a 
laiterie, ordered milk and found a corner in the cool, shut¬ 
tered place, with a table to themselves. And what a de¬ 
licious meal it was! Cream cheese and cucumber with a 
crisp roll and butter; cakes and fruit for the second course. 

“It’s better for me to-day than meat,” Mrs. Bickersteth 
confessed. “I’m feeling a shade gouty.” She helped her¬ 
self to strawberries and saw Piper’s lips tighten. “These 
little ones can’t hurt. Besides it’s not from food; it’s 
worry.” She started, for the market clock had begun to 
chime twelve slow notes. Now the church joined in and 
the air vibrated with the clamour. Mrs. Bickersteth drew 
a breath of relief. “Thank Heaven! I can tell you at 
last! I’ve had a dreadful time, Nanna.” 

She poured out her dramatic story and Piper listened, 
sitting on the edge of her chair and longing for an orange 
—but it wasn’t an easy thing to eat. Pips. She speedily 
forgot this desire as Mrs. Bickersteth reached the climax 
and, breathless, demanded Piper’s opinion. 

Piper gave it willingly. She put all the blame on Mrs. 
Verney. Though who would have thought it of Miss Joce- 
line? Always so ladylike and brought up as she had 
been! It seemed to Mrs. Bickersteth that the old nurse 
was less scandalized by the elopement itself than by the 


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fact that the culprits belonged to her lady's own class. 
They ought to be “setting an example." 

Piper tried to exonerate Trench. It had been Miss 
Verney’s plan, obviously the old story—which she firmly 
believed—of Eve and the apple. She summed it up in 
one pregnant sentence: 

“If only they can be married in time —and nobody gets 
to hear of it!" 

For Piper was a philosopher. Many a marriage in the 
village had begun in this disastrous fashion and yet had 
turned out happily. It gave the young wife a hold on 
her husband. If he didn’t work, or took to drink, she 
could say to him: “You brought me to this! I didn’t want 
to marry you. I only did it for the child." And that 
made a man look a fool and turn to—if he’d any gump¬ 
tion! 

But you didn’t expect it in the gentry. She made this 
contention so plain that Mrs. Bickersteth revolted. Na¬ 
ture was the same for all. Piper looked sceptical, but she 
saw that her mistress was grieving. She did her best to 
comfort her. It would all come right and no one need 
know. If only Mrs. Verney— 

“Ah!" Mrs. Bickersteth read the doubt in the lined 
old face across the table. “Will she give in? That’s my 
fear." 

“She’ll have to,” said Piper stoutly. “She hasn’t got a 
leg to stand on." 

“But we don’t know yet what she says—what’s behind 
it all,” her mistress protested. 

“We know as it isn’t true." Piper nodded her head 
sagely. “It might take in outside folk, but she didn’t dare 


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try it on Sir Roland, or whilst her husband was alive. It 
wouldn’t go down in her own village, if Miss Verney should 
write to the vicar.” 

“No, I hadn’t thought of that.” Mrs. Bickersteth 
looked relieved. 

“And if I were you, ma’am,” Piper suggested, “I 
wouldn’t be mixed up in it. She’d make a bad enemy and 
it’s not as if it were our affair. We’ve got to stay on here 
and, if you go worriting, you’ll undo all the cure. I’m 
sure Dr. Spalding would back me up. You was looking 
dead-beat this morning, with the bad night—and my tem¬ 
per!” There was real contrition in her voice. “I’d just 
give out that I knew nothink. It would be best, with Mrs. 
Verney.” 

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Bickersteth straightened her shoul¬ 
ders. Lunch and the good talk had revived her. “If she 
asks me, I shall speak the truth.” She was feeling un¬ 
commonly pugnacious, as if she would really enjoy the 
fray. She blinked in a ray of light that had found a 
crack in the shutters and her gaze fell on her hands. Yes, 
her knuckles were swollen this morning. How unfair it 
was that one should suffer for an earlier generation’s port. 
Why couldn’t they have had this gout? “I shall do my 
duty,” she added firmly. 

Piper repressed a smile. She remembered, years ago, 
overhearing Miss Christabel say: “When mother talks of 
doing her duty, you know that we’re in for squalls! Let’s 
be very good to-day, or else we shan’t get to the circus.” 

Peace settled on the dairy. Even beyond it the noise 
was hushed. Men were clustered, thick as flies, round 
the tables outside the cafes, somnolent over their wine 


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and coffee. Strange, this out-of-door life, so different from 
the empty look of an English town in the dinner-hour. 
Piper, in her mind, decided it would be all right—except 
for the smells! 

Mrs. Bickersteth broke the silence: 

“What I can’t get over, Nanna, is that story about the 
prescription. Pretending all those years and nothing 
really wrong with her heart!” 

“It served its purpose,” said Piper dryly. “But I never 
thought she looked the colour, though it’s hard to tell with 
Mrs. Verney, using all those paints and powders. I’m 
sure it gave me quite a turn, ma’am, to see an old lady of 
her age and so bold about it too! She didn’t mind me 
being there whilst she was blackening her eyes. With a 
little brush, ma’am, out of a pot!” 

“No?” Mrs. Bickersteth was intrigued. “I thought 
her eyelashes were dark. Of course,” she said incoher¬ 
ently, “she lives abroad half the year.” 

“That’s it.” Piper tightened her lips. “And that’s 
what’s the matter with Miss Verney. She’s lost her sense 
of right and wrong. I’m sure I’m sorry for Mr. Trench.” 

“But it’s his fault too. He shouldn’t allow it.” Mrs. 
Bickersteth tried to be just. 

“Oh, well, ma’am, he’s only a man,” said Piper with a 
wise smile. 

Mrs. Bickersteth went in to dinner on the last vibration 
of the gong. Still in her pugnacious mood, she hoped 
Mrs. Verney would appear and watched the door, between 
spoonfuls of soup. It was potage a Voseille which she 
rather liked to-night, with its faintly bitter flavour. The 


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243 

frugal lunch had given her an appetite. Her headache had 
gone and she felt ready to fight the young people’s battle, 
if it was forced on her. Although she was horrified by 
their conduct, something must be done at once. Every 
day spent together added to their offence in the sight of 
God and man. Mrs. Verney must act, and act quickly. 
So Mrs. Bickersteth girded her loins. 

She had arrived at the third course when, through the 
doorway, came a vision of picturesque old age. Mrs. 
Verney looked wonderful to-night, in an oyster-coloured 
gown, a black lace shawl over her shoulders. Little black 
slippers with red heels and a small, red, lacquered fan 
added a note of brilliancy and, against the full ruched 
skirt as she moved, swung a bag holding her handkerchief, 
made of vivid geranium petals. 

With her white hair dressed high, little, rolled curls over 
her ears, and her china-like powdered face, she suggested 
a woman half her age attired for a masquerade. There 
was even a minute, black patch on her left cheek close to 
her eye and, as she floated up the room, fragile and co¬ 
quettish, she smiled and nodded to her friends, her painted 
lips curved with pleasure; or so it appeared on the surface. 

Mrs. Bickersteth felt a thrill of horror. She watched 
the head-waiter hurry forward and surround Mrs. Verney 
with every attention, and the thought flashed through her 
mind that he must be well-tipped. She remembered 
Trench’s bitter remark: “You can—on an extra thousand 
a year!” 

Was it possible that she was glad? That she hoped 
Trench would go off with her daughter to California and 
marry her, worn-out by delay, leaving Mrs. Verney in 


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possession of her present income? And all without the old 
lady’s connivance, in the teeth of her prohibition, so that 
her conscience might be clear. Mrs. Bickersteth checked 
her imagination which was sailing off with her reason. For 
might it not be a magnificent bluff, to deceive the hotel 
since her daughter’s flight, the result of her undying 
pride? 

Mrs. Bickersteth, staring across the room, met a shrewd 
glance from those dark eyes and forced a smile, to receive 
in return the flutter of a tiny hand in an amicable gesture. 
She did not wish to appear watchful and, for the remainder 
of the meal, she read an old, Devonshire paper, forwarded 
by her husband and which seemed to be full of strikes, of 
bitter party feeling, violent crimes and smallpox! What 
was the world coming to? No law or order anywhere. 

“Every one out for himself,” Mrs. Bickersteth decided. 
“With never a thought for the nation. Really, the French 
are more patriotic. They want their country to go on.” 

She timed her departure from the table to coincide with 
Mrs. Verney’s and caught her up in the lounge as she 
paused to greet Mme. de Mesnil. 

“And where is your charming daughter to-night?” the 
latter enquired. “Not ill, I hope?” 

“On the contrary!” Mrs. Verney smiled. “She has 
gone to stay with some friends at a Villa. I miss her, but 
I mustn’t be selfish. It is a little change for the child.” 
The Countess had looked curious, but now she nodded, 
satisfied. “Ah, here is Mrs. Bickersteth.” Mrs. Verney 
turned her head. “I haven’t seen you all day! Shall we 
have our coffee together? I’m not going to play bridge 


YOUTH WINS 


245 

to-night. My eyes have been giving me trouble—the dust, 
I think—and the cards tire them. I should be glad of a 
chat.” 

Against her will, Mrs. Bickersteth was moved to honest 
admiration. For the eyes, with their skilfully darkened 
lashes, were shadowed by heavy lids. They had wept bit¬ 
ter tears. 

“You must be careful,” she said quickly. “I suffered, 
too, after that long drive to Domfront. The dust here is 
full of lime.” 

Mme. de Mesnil was listening, puzzled. Mrs. Verney 
translated the word. 

“And now, what about coffee?” she asked. “You must 
all be my guests to-night. And liqueurs—I feel in the 
mood for liqueurs!” “The General” had joined the group, 
with her depressed daughter-in-law, and promptly ac¬ 
cepted for them both. She rarely refused an invitation. 
“That’s right. We shall want some more chairs.” 

Beckoning to a waiter, she ordered coffee for five and 
consulted their tastes in liqueurs. 

They settled down round the table, Mrs. Verney the 
life and soul of the party. The “Old Guard,” she chris¬ 
tened it. 

“Isn’t it strange,” she said, “how during a cure one 
forms a circle in the early days without effort, and then, 
as it grows smaller, one has not the energy to find fresh 
friends to fill the gaps? Somehow, you feel that the time 
is too short and also, that the newcomers are interlopers! ” 
She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “So absurd, yet 
very human. We none of us want to be superseded.” 


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246 

“C’est vrai!” Mme. de Mesnil smiled. “It is one of 
the hardships of age, madame. Still, we live on in our 
children.” 

Mrs. Verney was pouring out the coffee. Her hand 
shook and the cup overflowed. 

“How clumsy of me! But it is heavy. I have always 
had such weak wrists.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth came to the rescue: 

“Let me do it?” 

“Would you?” Mrs. Verney willingly relinquished her 
task. “In these little matters I miss my Joceline.” 

Again the question was put to her, this time by “the 
General.” Mrs. Verney returned the same answer and 
added: 

“Some young people are staying there. A dance and so 
forth.” 

“At the Villa des Fleurs?” “the General” demanded in 
her best court-martial manner, as she slipped some sugar 
into her bag, where already she had secreted an orange. 

For a moment the other hesitated; then, with a slight 
touch of hauteur, she faced the inquisitive old dame. 

“Oh, no. Some English friends.” 

“But you should be there too, madame,” the Countess 
interposed sweetly, annoyed by “the General’s” want of 
taste. “In that beautiful gown. It is a poem!” 

“Ah, you like it?” Mrs. Verney was pleased. It is only 
a rechauffe, but I really could not part with the satin.” 

They began to talk dress. 

When the last drop of coffee had been drained, “the 
General” became restless. They must find a fourth 
for bridge. No, her daughter-in-law would not play. 


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247 

She was here for repose—she hesitated, and Mrs. 
Bickersteth held her breath, pitying the poor young ma¬ 
tron. Surely “the General” would not again set forth the 
object of this visit? But Mme. de Mesnil rose from the 
table with a graceful little speech. They would miss dear 
Mrs. Verney at bridge, but she was wise to take care of 
her eyesight. Delicious, the coffee and liqueurs! 

There followed no suggestion of returning the hospi¬ 
tality on a future occasion. It wasn’t done. The Brit¬ 
ish were extravagant and, with the Exchange as it stood, 
they could well afford it, voyons! England hadn’t been 
invaded, which was why they were tiresome about the 
Ruhr. 

When the pair were left alone, Mrs. Verney began to 
discuss this question with Mrs. Bickersteth. It was obvi¬ 
ous that she sympathized with the aims of her mother’s 
country. Every now and then, she would glance about 
her, watching the crowd settle down to its evening occupa¬ 
tions: cards, conversation and needlework. From the lit¬ 
tle salon came the sound, veiled and discreet, of the piano; 
one of the younger generation displaying an amateur tal¬ 
ent, for the benefit of the old ladies, hermetically sealed 
and safe from smoke. 

At last Mrs. Verney leaned forward and caught Mrs. 
Bickersteth’s wandering attention. 

“I wonder if you would mind,” she asked, “coming up 
to my room for a little? There is something I want to 
say to you and we should be quiet there.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth, soothed by Sous la FeuilUe , played 
with the soft pedal down, started. 

“Of course not. Certainly.” She was glad she had re- 


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248 

fused that liqueur. She would want all her wits about 
her. “Shall we go now?” 

“Yes, I think we can slip away.” Mrs. Verney rose 
and moved off with a leisurely step. When she came to 
the bridge-table, she paused and glanced at “the General’s” 
hand. Gaunt and outwardly depressed, that tyro was 
holding four aces! “Bonne fortune!” she breathed, and 
passed on. 

The lift carried the pair upstairs. Mrs. Verney pro¬ 
duced her key, opened the door and switched on the 
lights. 

“Now!” she pulled a chair forward. “I think you will 
find this comfortable. And a cushion? I always bring 
some with me.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth, subsiding, thought as she gazed round 
the room that the Verneys’ baggage must be enormous. 
There was everything which tended to comfort, from the 
satin quilt in the same soft mauve as the filmy night-dress 
spread upon it, that matched the dainty peignoir and slip¬ 
pers, to the china service they used for tea. Her eyes 
wandered to the dressing-table and its treasures. 

“What lovely tortoise-shell!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t 
you afraid of its getting broken? Chambermaids are so 
careless.” 

“It belongs to my dressing-case.” Mrs. Verney’s voice 
was indifferent. “I think I must have a cigarette. It 
quiets my nerves. Do you smoke?” She offered the case, 
in gold and enamel, but Mrs. Bickersteth shook her head. 
“I’m so troubled to-night—though I hope I don’t show it?” 

“You don’t,” Mrs. Bickersteth assured her. “I think 
you’ve been—wonderful!” 


YOUTH WINS 


H9 

“Ah, then you know? The truth about Joceline?” The° 
dark eyes searched her face. “That she’s gone away wit& 
that wicked young man, left me, through his influence! I 
guessed as much after dinner when Mme. de Mesnil was 
questioning me.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth nodded gravely. 

“Yes, you were in their confidence.” Mrs, Verney’s 
voice trembled. “You and Joceline. Instead of—” She 
bit her lip. Suddenly her composure gave way. The deli¬ 
cately painted old face seemed to break up, into a net¬ 
work of lines, as she uncurbed her emotion. Her head 
went down onto her hands. “What have I done,” she 
wailed, “to be treated like this? My own daughter! The 
deceit—the cruel blow to me! Joceline, brought up as 
she has been, to desert me for a stranger. A man out¬ 
side her own class! And I can do nothing—powerless!” 
She sobbed, her frail shoulders shaken. “If only I knew 
where they were!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth’s heart was wrung with pity. Her 
animosity had fled. Here was a parent, old and stricken, 
imploring help from another. 

“I wish I could tell you, but I can’t! I haven’t the 
faintest idea myself. But you mustn't give way.” She 
leaned forward, a hand laid on the other’s knee. “It’s, 
dreadfully sad, but you can—” She stopped. 

For Mrs. Verney had jerked up her head. In the dark 
eyes veiled by tears, she read a sudden, fierce disappoint¬ 
ment. Here was not sorrow so much as anger. 

“You don’t know where they’ve gone? No, I see that 
you don’t. My last hope!” Once more she collapsed, 
her face hidden in her hands. 


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'250 

But now Mrs. Bickersteth felt a doubt. She remem¬ 
bered Joceline’s reason for withholding the address: 
“Mother would get it out of you,” and she was aware of 
her moment of weakness, and of something, deep and 
true, missing in the other’s grief. It had been a shrewd 
attempt to break down her own guard. Ah, she was 
clever, Mrs. Verney! Mrs. Bickersteth straightened her 
shoulders, and settled down to the task before her. 

“Still, you must act—act at once. It’s dreadful, but 
it can be stopped. I mean, they want to be married and it 
all lies in your hands. And no one need know—you can 
trust me—but they mustn’t go on living together. They 
won't, if you give your consent to the match.” 

“My consent?” Mrs. Verney quivered. “Never!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth was stunned by the deadly purpose in 
in the word. She watched Mrs. Verney draw herself up, 
produce a lace-edged handkerchief, so small that it was of 
no use, toss it aside contemptuously and rise to her feet. 
She crossed the room, found a larger one, wiped her eyes 
and blew her nose. Then she moved to the dressing-table. 
Picking up the powder-puff, she passed it over her rav¬ 
aged face, leaning forward to mark the result. It was 
done almost unconsciously, but Mrs. Bickersteth was dis¬ 
gusted. 

“But you don’t mean—you can’t mean you will let them 
go on, living in sin?” She was so indignant that she 
choked. 

“There will be no need.” With her handkerchief, Mrs. 
Verney removed a little smudge in the hollow beneath one 
eye. “It was foolish of me to break down, but my nerves 
were overstrained. I’m old, and my heart is not very 


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strong.” She came back to her chair and seated herself 
with dignity. Now her whole manner had changed. She 
surveyed her visitor coldly and incuriously. “I am not 
going to ask you any questions. You are in their confi¬ 
dence and I know your opinion of Mr. Trench. Al¬ 
though”—her nostrils curled—“I can hardly believe you 
approve of his present conduct?” 

“I do not.” Mrs. Bickersteth resented the inference. 
“I am shocked that it should have come to this!” She 
made her meaning obvious. 

“Yet you encouraged them,” Mrs. Verney put in 
shrewdly. “Oh, of course I’ve seen. I’m not blind! You 
yourself desired the marriage. Apart from its obvious 
drawbacks—I refer to money and position—I have my 
own private reason for withholding my consent.” 

“Yes?” 

Mrs. Verney smiled. For in the word was a na'ive curi¬ 
osity. It satisfied the clever old woman. 

“A very serious reason indeed,” she resumed with an 
air of assurance. “But, besides this, I know my daugh¬ 
ter’s character. This adventure is utterly alien to it; the 
result of a sudden loss of balance. She has always been 
hysterical—the real cause of her nervous troubles. In 
consequence, there will be a reaction.” Her voice hard¬ 
ened. “Joceline will return to me. She is highly-strung 
and too fastidious to endure the present degrading condi¬ 
tions. She will not remain that man’s mistress.” Mrs. 
Bickersteth flinched at the plain word. “There is noth¬ 
ing coarse in her nature. Moreover, she is deeply reli¬ 
gious. She will awake to shame and horror. Mr. Trench 
has made a grave mistake and his influence will not last” 


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“I’m afraid I don’t agree with you.” Mrs Bickersteth 
had no hesitation in speaking her mind at this juncture. 
She was outraged by the other’s calm acceptance of the 
situation. To sit there and wait and do nothing when 
her own flesh and blood was in danger! “You seem to 
forget they love each other. From something Joceline 
has told me, I don’t believe she has ever cared, in the 
right way, for a man before. Oliver is devoted to her, and 
he has a strong will. The times, too, have changed. 
Young people now insist on living their own lives, and it is 
a lawless age. I think you should be prepared for the 
worst; that if you withhold your consent you will drive 
them into—an open scandal.” Mrs. Verney’s eyes flashed, 
but on went the speaker urgently: “I feel I have no right 
to advise you, but if she were my own daughter, however 
much I might resent her behaviour to myself, I should 
think first of her moral welfare.” 

She paused for breath. Had she made an impression? 
Mrs. Verney was leaning back, staring before her into 
space. There was cruelty in the line of her lips, yet the 
tears stood once more in her eyes and her hands gripped 
the arms of her chair. The sincere woman, watching her, 
wondered if her heart were softening. She altered her 
line of attack: 

“Joceline is not a young girl and she has passed through 
much sorrow. It may be her last chance of marriage. Put 
yourself in her place. Why shouldn’t she have the happi¬ 
ness that you and I have known—a loving husband, pos¬ 
sibly children? She has been a devoted daughter to you, 
as you have told me yourself. Is her reward to be lone¬ 
liness in her old age?” 


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2 53 

Silence succeeded the question. The old lady seemed 
lost in thought. Mrs. Bickersteth was praying, incoher¬ 
ently, but with faith—the Almighty would understand 
her! That speech now, about “the first stone”; and for¬ 
giveness for those who had “loved much.” But that was 
no excuse for a mother to drive a child to recklessness, 
and then stand by and watch her ruin. 

Mrs. Verney drew herself erect. With an air of pro¬ 
nouncing an ultimatum, she said in a prophetic voice: 

“Joceline will return to-morrow. Of her own accord— 
broken, repentant. I see it all clearly now. She will never 
marry Trench.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth rose to her feet. She had failed. 

“To-morrow? You deceive yourself. Unless you mean 
you will wire to Paris?” 

“I shall do nothing,” said Mrs. Verney. She rose too, 
and held out her hand. “Thank you for this conversa¬ 
tion. It has helped to clear my mind. You will see that 
I am right. Her father would have forbidden the match, 
and I—” 

Mrs. Bickersteth broke in: 

“But then, the sin of it all!” 

“There is no remedy for sin.” Mrs. Verney’s voice was 
solemn. “Only remorse and repentance. Good night.” 
Her face softened. Something wistful stole into her eyes. 
“You have been both kind and honest. I am sorry we 
cannot agree. Believe me, Mrs. Bickersteth, I am think¬ 
ing of Joceline’s future. A marriage after what has oc¬ 
curred would be built on sand, not rock.” She saw that 
her words had gone home. They had formed a part of 
the younger woman’s own argument with Joceline Over- 


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254 

night. “But it’s all part of my punishment.” She hesi¬ 
tated, then went on, “Yes, I will confess to you. Years 
ago, I foreswore my faith in order to marry Mr. Verney. 
I sinned—not as Joceline is sinning, but from the same 
cause, youthful passion. If I had been true to the creed 
in which I was born and found my strength, Joceline 
might have had behind her the living force of the Catholic 
Church. I have robbed her of this—and I must pay!” 
The word came out with a little sob. There was no doubt 
of her earnestness now. “But I loved my husband too 
well. And I lost him. Now I stand alone.” Her hand in 
Mrs. Bickersteth’s tightened. The tears rose and over¬ 
flowed. “Would you”—she swayed forward, her whole 
attitude a prayer—“kiss an unhappy old woman? I feel 
so terribly lonely to-night.” 

There was only one response to this in a heart as simple 
and generous as Mrs. Bickersteth’s. Her arms went 
round the frail old creature. 

“My dear, it’s cruel! But do think it over?” She 
kissed the faintly perfumed cheek. “Is there anything I 
can do for you? Would you like Piper to help you to 
bed?” 

“If you can spare her, it would be most kind.” Mrs. 
Verney stood back and wiped her eyes. A flicker of 
pride made her add, “Explain to her that I've had some 
bad news.” 

“I will.” Mrs. Bickersteth felt guilty. But Piper knew 
how to keep a secret. “I’ll send her in to you at once.” 

“Thank you.” Mrs. Verney was thinking. At the 
door she paused. “Whatever happens, remember it’s all 


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255 

for Joceline’s sake. That I’ve lived for her—my first 
thought.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth was sorely puzzled as she made her 
way down the passage. Was there ever such wrong-head¬ 
edness? And yet a parent’s love behind it. Could ma¬ 
ternal love be a snare? In contrast to the form it took 
in the proud and dominant old lady, those children’s con¬ 
duct seemed truer to nature. She forgot that, in Joce¬ 
line’s case, it was complicated by revenge. They had 
thrown away everything for love—Mrs. Bickersteth wiped 
her eyes. What a romance, and tragedy! 

There was no time to explain to Piper. She sent the 
old nurse off on her mission, urging her to be kind and 
silent. Perhaps the night would bring counsel? Restless, 
Mrs. Bickersteth sought the cool air on her balcony. 

Silence enfolded the lake and the distant brooding hills 
under a sky that was cloudless and, yet, wore a veil, the 
light of the myriad stars. The great planets hung low, 
like the nearest ranks of a procession, to thicken over the 
Foret d’Andaine and melt into the Milky Way. World 
upon world—obeying a rule. Was that the secret which 
had escaped the careless intelligence of mortals after the 
anarchy of war? The thought came dimly to the watcher. 
It had shaken humanity into shattered particles; every 
man for himself, disregarding the rule of God. . . . 

Where were those two young people now? Vaguely, in 
her mind, she pictured them at Mont St. Michel, watching 
the same wonderful night, side by side, in an upper room 
that overhung the wine-coloured sea. It was difficult not 
to forgive them! When you knew people who “went 


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256 

wrong,” were fond of them, it made a difference. How 
could Mrs. Verney hold out? 

“She won’t,” Mrs. Bickersteth decided. “She’ll think 
it over in the darkness. Poor soul, she’ll have no sleep 
to-night.” 

But Piper, on her return, had another story to tell. She 
had left Mrs. Verney, propped up in bed, calm and ap¬ 
parently resigned, reading a book that “looked religious, 
although it wasn’t the Bible, ma’am,” and her last re¬ 
quest had been for a box that contained some cachets, 
which stood on her washing-stand. She had explained to 
Piper that the contents would make her sleep! 

Mrs. Bickersteth’s dream faded. 

“You’re sure they’re not for her heart?” 

“Quite. She opened the box, ma’am, and counted them. 
There were four left and she took out one and put it be¬ 
side her, together with a glass of water and called it her 
Sleeping-draught.’ And then she gave me this—” Piper 
disclosed a note in her hand. “I didn’t want to take it, 
ma’am—no need for it and far too much—but I saw, if 
not, she’d be offended. So I did, and she shook hands 
with me. Told me, too, to thank you again, ma’am. I 
can’t make her out at all.” 

“Nor I.” Mrs. Bickersteth’s voice was short. “So 
now I’ll go to bed, Piper.” 


CHAPTER XV 


B UT in the morning she understood. 

Through the rain she went to her bath. It was 
still pouring when she returned, without a glimpse 
of Mrs. Verney. The porter was nowhere to be seen, but 
Piper was standing on the steps, evidently watching for 
her. At the first sight of her face, Mrs. Bickersteth 
guessed there was fresh trouble. 

“What is it?” She clutched Piper’s arm as she got out 
of the omnibus. “Not bad news —a telegram?” 

“No, ma’am. Everything’s right at home.” Piper drew 
her on to the pavement under the glass roof of the porch. 
“It’s here, ma’am—Mrs. Verney. I shall have to tell you 
quickly, as the manager is waiting to see you. But, oh, 
do be careful with him. She’s gone, poor lady, died in 
her sleep.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth gasped. 

“Oh, Piper!” 

“Yes’m. They think it was her heart.” Piper looked 
over her shoulder quickly and spoke in a whisper: “But 
I’ve my doubts. They’ve been questioning me, but I 
kept my head. Don’t say nothink about those cachets. 
You’ll remember, ma’am?” 

Her mistress nodded. She was too horrified to speak. 
Piper went on breathlessly: 

“We’ve got to think of poor Miss Verney. And it’s 
bad enough as it is! I was the last to see her alive. But 
257 


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they won’t get nothink out of me” Her lined face looked 
defiant. “And they don’t want no scandal, neither. But 
Miss Verney’s got to be found. That’s why the manager’s 
waiting for you, though I said as you didn’t know.” 

Apparently he would wait no longer, for, as she whis¬ 
pered, he appeared suspiciously on the top step and 
frowned down at the maid. 

“I’d better go in.” Mrs. Bickersteth braced herself 
for the ordeal. 

Little was said until she reached the private room at 
the back of the Office. The manager offered her a chair. 
Mrs. Bickersteth, rigid, took it. She was thankful that 
he could speak English, and she listened as he unfolded 
the story of how the chambermaid had knocked, received 
no response and returned later, to find Mrs. Verney 
asleep, as she had thought. Then the terrible revelation. 

It was evident that the manager was both nervous and 
exasperated. He kept on twisting his plump, white hands 
and darting sharp glances at her. He regarded it, obvi¬ 
ously, as an insult to his hotel. An old lady, highly re¬ 
spected, left to die on his hands! And at Bagnoles there 
were no deaths. Not among the visitors. It was unheard 
of—a disaster! In the middle of the season too. Not 
even a maid in charge of her, and where was Miss Verney? 
That was another mystery! She must be found—he threw 
out his hands—and at once! He had questioned Mme. la 
Comtesse de Mesnil and learnt that Miss Verney was 
supposed to be staying at some Villa. He paused interro¬ 
gatively. Mrs. Bickersteth nodded her head. 

“So I understood from her mother, but I don’t know 
the name.” 


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259 


“A Villa in Bagnoles?” 

“I have no idea.” 

At that moment there came a knock at the door. 

“Entrez!” the manager rapped out, and the porter ap¬ 
peared on the threshold. “Eh bien?” 

The porter, triumphant, poured out his news. He had 
found the driver of the fiacre employed by Miss Verney 
when she left the hotel. She had driven direct to Couterne 
station where he had helped to take down the luggage. 
This was the sum of his information, but possibly the 
porters knew more. 

“Couterne? Excuse me, madame.” The manager 
pounced on the telephone and demanded a number. 
“Hallo . . . hallo!” He asked for the station-mas¬ 
ter. 

Mrs. Bickersteth held her breath. Was that the line to 
Mont St. Michel? 

A rapid conversation followed, the description of the 
missing lady and a pause whilst the harassed man held 
the receiver to his ear and glared across at the window. 
Then a name broke from his lips: 

“Domfront? ... A first-class ticket to Domfront? 
. . . Si . . . c’est ga! Merci , monsieur ” He rang off, 
frowning, and returned to his victim. Did Madame know 
if Miss Verney had friends in a Villa at Domfront? 

Know? Full well she knew! The truth had broken in 
on her. Again she heard Sir Raphael speaking to Trench 
in the sunny garden. Fragments floated up in her mind 
of the final conversation: “If I were a man of your age 
. . . the Champsecret —and Paradise!” 

They were there, the errant lovers! But how could she 


2 6o 


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betray their secret? She must screen them. Thrusting 
reason from her, she embarked on pure romance. 

“Domfront? Of course! How stupid of me. But the 
shock took my wits away. It must be those friends whom 
we met there on the day we had lunch together.” She was 
inventing desperately, amazed by the calm sound of her 
voice. 

The manager’s face relaxed. He drew a sheet of paper 
to him and jerked a pencil out of his pocket. 

“And their address, madame?” 

“Ah, that’s the trouble!” She actually smiled. “I’ve 
a bad memory for names. But I’m sure I could find the 
house again. It stood back—not far from the walls.” She 
rose to her feet. “That’s the best plan! If you can let 
me have a car, I’ll go and fetch Miss Verney myself and 
break the terrible news to her.” 

The manager heartily agreed to the proposition. His 
manner changed, once more deferential. It would be an 
errand of charity. Poor young lady! Nevertheless, Mrs. 
Verney should not have been left alone, at her age, with 
a weak heart. Which reminded him—his face altered; he 
knit his brows—there was another serious matter. He 
was speaking now in confidence. The doctor who had 
been called in was anxious to know what had been the 
contents of a little box by her bedside bearing an English 
chemist’s label. Unfortunately it was empty. Was it 
possible that the deceased had taken an overdose of some 
morphine preparation? Such things had occurred before. 
He believed Mrs. Bickersteth’s maid had helped the poor 
lady to bed. The doctor had questioned her, but— 


YOUTH WINS 261 

Mrs. Bickersteth interrupted him, her loyalty up in 
arms at the new note in the manager’s voice. 

“My maid knows nothing. But I can tell you. Mrs. 
Verney frequently took some cachets—a sedative—when 
she required them. A harmless dose, so her daughter told 
me, of bromide and bismuth, to calm her nerves. The 
chemist in England would confirm this. Or, no doubt, 
we could find the prescription.” 

She saw the other’s intense relief. Above everything, 
he dreaded a scandal. The affair would be hushed up. 

“Is that all?” As he bowed his thanks, she sailed out, 
her head high, her heart like ice. “I shall be ready in ten 
minutes,” she told him severely at the lift. “When I re¬ 
turn with Miss Verney I shall rely on you to spare her all 
you can. Then we must wire for her relations.” 

Piper was waiting in the passage. She gave her mis¬ 
tress one glance and hurried her along to her room. Here 
Mrs. Bickersteth collapsed, safe behind the locked door. 
It was good to have the relief of tears and Piper’s loving 
sympathy. 

“I’ve saved them”—she wiped her eyes—“but I’ve had 
to tell some shocking untruths. Still, my heart ached for 
those poor young people. Oh, what a dreadful punish¬ 
ment, Nanna! And how Mrs. Verney must have suffered. 
For it wasn’t an accident. I knew that when he said it 
was empty. The box, I mean. It must have been through 
a sudden loss of sanity. She couldn’t live without her 
daughter!” She looked up at the old nurse and was sur¬ 
prised at her expression, grim and uncompromising. 
“What is it? You don’t agree with me?” 


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262 

“No, ma’am. She did it to punish them. It was all 
thought out and that I should know. I can see her now, 
counting those cachets and explaining that one was the 
dose. She said she’d never give her consent, and she 
hasn’t! But she’s come between them. In a way, it’s 
her victory. For I doubt if, after this, Miss Verney will 
marry Mr. Trench.” 

“But she must!” Mrs. Bickersteth was confounded. 
“And besides, she needn’t know the truth. We must be 
careful to keep it from her. The manager will say noth¬ 
ing. You mark my words, they’ll hush it up. I could 
read it in his face. They’ve every excuse. It will be 
‘heart failure’.” 

“Miss Verney will guess,” Piper persisted. “Ah, she 
was a clever one—though I’ll say nothing against the 
dead. But it’s best for you to be prepared.” She low¬ 
ered her voice mysteriously. “I had a look at the old 
lady and she wasn’t as I left her last night. She’d done 
her hair and pinned on her curls and her hands were 
folded on her breast. She makes a beautiful corpse, 
ma’am, as she meant to—there’s no doubt of it! Miss 
Joceline’s photo beside her and even her rings on her 
fingers. For nobody would rob the dead. It never was a 
sudden impulse. It was to get her daughter back, as she 
told you she would, and to-day” 

“So she did! I’d forgotten that. Well, Piper, we must 
do all we can.” Mrs. Bickersteth struggled up. “I’m 
dreading what lies before me. I’d better take my mackin¬ 
tosh.” 

“We will, ma’am,” Piper agreed, and caught her mis¬ 
tress’ eye in the glass. “Why, you don’t think I’d let you 


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263 

go alone? Miss Verney might be taken bad and, anyhow, 
I could sit by the driver. Whilst you’re tidying your hair 
I’ll just get my hat and coat on.” 

She slipped out, to avoid discussion. 

As she was fastening her shoe-lace, a sudden happy 
thought struck her. Those socks! She could put them 
in her pocket. There might be a chance of returning 
them, with or without an explanation. 

She went to the top drawer, in which she kept her work 
bag and mending, and turned it upside-down—in vain! 

Whatever could she have done with them? Hurriedly 
she searched the room. Could anything be more provok¬ 
ing? For it might be the last chance of getting 
in touch with Mr. Trench. He couldn’t return to the 
hotel, for obvious reasons, the main one being that every 
one placed him at Mont St. Michel. She had seen the 
socks three days ago, together with those silk stockings 
that her mistress would buy at a London sale—and “box- 
rotten,” as Piper knew! 

Well, it was no good worrying, with all this serious 
trouble to face. She picked up her umbrella and sallied 
forth with the conviction that something was “wrong” 
in this hotel. Piper firmly believed in ghosts. It would 
be like Mrs. Verney—poor lady—to have spirited those 
socks away! 

It was mournful in the Foret d’Andaine, with the wet 
boughs that dripped overhead, but when they emerged 
it was to find that they had outdistanced the main down¬ 
pour. The sun stole out from between the clouds, draw¬ 
ing up the heavy moisture and a mist obscured the won- 


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264 

derful view. Above the immense vale, Domfront and 
her towers were sharp as an etching against the sky, pale 
blue where the dark curtains had parted, to drape the 
horizon. 

The narrow streets smelt mildewed as they crawled 
through them, past the Dungeon, and drew up before the 
main hotel. For this was part of the plan evolved during 
the lengthy drive. From here they could walk to their 
destination and keep its secret from the chauffeur and 
the presence of Trench in the town. 

A few drops were still falling. Bulky in her mackin¬ 
tosh, Mrs. Bickersteth took Piper’s arm and sheltered 
under her umbrella. They started forth gallantly. 

“If only I can see him first,” Mrs. Bickersteth panted, 
plodding along. “I must ask for him, anyhow. I 
shouldn’t know what to call Miss Verney.” A sudden 
distaste for the sordid side of the adventure overwhelmed 
her. “I suppose she’s known as ‘Mrs. Trench’?” 

“She would be,” said Piper primly. “Mind that big 
puddle, ma’am.” 

It seemed an endless expedition, with divers instruc¬ 
tions from passers-by, but at last they reached a narrow 
road and saw before them the little inn with its weather¬ 
beaten stones, its crooked roof and mysterious name, 
Hotel Champsecret, over the door, wide open, like an 
astonished mouth under the slit eyes of its windows. 

The place was deserted at this hour and, failing to 
find a bell, Mrs. Bickersteth marched in, Piper at her 
heels, cherishing the damp umbrella. 

From a door on the left of the narrow passage came a 
woman in a blue apron, a knitted cape round her plump 


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265 

shoulders, with a savoury smell of soup. She greeted 
them civilly and Mrs. Bickersteth asked for Trench. 

The patronne smiled and nodded. 

“Monsieur” was in the garden, she thought, though 
“Madame” had gone upstairs. She opened a farther 
door and the light streamed in. Shading her eyes, she 
peered out. Yes, there, on the terrasse. She would fetch 
him. But Mrs. Bickersteth checked her. 

“I will go to him myself.” She turned to Piper. 
“You’d better wait here.” 

The patronne invited her into the kitchen. 

Mrs. Bickersteth picked her way across the untidy 
little garden, picturesque with its unpruned bushes and 
masses of vivid colour. For, in every cranny of the 
stones, snapdragon had seeded itself and was in its full 
glory. At the end of the rough grass was a paved walk, 
fringing the old town wall, a broken line against the 
sky with a sense of infinite space beyond. Trench, his 
back turned to her, leant, his elbows propped on the 
coping, a pipe in the corner of his mouth, gazing across 
the wide prospect. 

Mrs. Bickersteth’s heart beat fast as, hearing her step 
on the flagstones behind him, he started and wheeled 
round. 

“You!” His face showed surprise and pleasure. How 
happy he looked, she thought. Then it changed as he 
hastily tapped out his pipe, thrust it into his pocket and 
advanced. “But how did you know we were here?” 

A covert suspicion was in his glance as he held out 
his hand to her. 

Mrs. Bickersteth took it—unwillingly! 


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“I guessed.” Her honest eyes condemned him. “But 
I can’t go into all that now—you must know what I feel 
about it. I’ve no time and there’s dreadful trouble. 
I’ve come to take Joceline back.” 

He stiffened. 

“She won’t go.” 

“She will”—Mrs. Bickersteth faced him sternly— 
“when she knows that her mother died last night.” 

“What?” He stared blankly at her. Then the full 
meaning reached him and the blood receded from his 
face. “My God!” She heard him mutter under his 
breath: “Dead? That puts the lid on!” 

Because it had been Dicky’s favourite expression in 
moments of disillusion, Mrs. Bickersteth’s heart went 
soft as wax. 

“It’s true.” Her voice faltered now. 

“Oh, my poor Joceline!” The cry was wrung from 
him. “This will finish her. And we were so happy!” 
As though he could not bear the light, he put a hand up 
over his eyes. “One minute!” he said huskily. 

Patient, she waited, filled with a pity that blotted out 
her desire to preach. Youth seemed suddenly so help¬ 
less—at the mercy of the Spring. She found herself un¬ 
expectedly thinking: “It’s because they weren’t allowed 
to marry. They haven’t had a fair chance.” 

Oliver’s hand fell to his side. He looked at her, his 
jaw set, every muscle in his body taut. 

“Now, please tell me everything.” But before she 
could start, he asked a question: “I suppose it was heart, 
after all?” 

“I’m afraid not. Intentional.” She saw him recoil 


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267 

under the blow. “But we must keep this to ourselves. 
Above all, from Joceline’s knowledge.” She glanced back 
at the hotel. “Can she see us from the windows?” 

“Yes.” He pulled himself together. “Let’s go to that 
arbour. She’s upstairs, changing her clothes. We went 
out early and got soaked.” 

He moved, Mrs. Bickersteth beside him, to a broken- 
down retreat, the home of innumerable spiders, that filled 
the angle of the terrace. There was a bench across it 
and the bushes shielded them from the inn. 

Here she told him the whole story, watching the youth 
die out of his face and marvelling at his control. For, 
even in his despair, he gripped the main possibilities, 
questioning her when she faltered and showing his deep 
gratitude for her efforts on their behalf. 

“I can’t thank you,” he said at the end. “You’re the 
best woman I’ve ever met.” He looked her straight be¬ 
tween the eyes. “Will you stand by Joceline still?” 

“I will.” She put a hand over his and pressed it. 
“That’s understood. And now you must tell her, Oliver. 
Gradually—not all at once. Say first that her mother 
is ill. But, in case we don’t get another chance, I want 
to impress this on you: you must go off to Mont St. 
Michel. At once. It’s the only way.” 

“Must I? Couldn’t I stay here?” He pleaded with 
her, hollow-eyed. “It’s nearer and we could meet.” 

“No.” She shook her head gravely. “There’s enough 
gossip already. The whole hotel is wondering. You 
must send her luggage back by train—we shall walk to 
the car—pay your bill and slip away. I want you to 
post me a card to-night, as soon as you reach Mont St. 


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Michel, with your new address on it, for all the hotel 
to read. Just the usual friendly message. That will 
divert suspicion, as you’re not supposed to know of the 
death. But you can write to Joceline. And after the 
funeral—” She broke off. “I don’t know—I can’t look 
ahead. Anyhow, we can meet in Paris. At present, we 
must think of her —of safeguarding her reputation.” 

“You’re right.” He rose to his feet, but hesitated, his 
face working. “God knows how I shall break it!” 

Before she could answer, he wheeled off. 

She watched him cross the uneven grass, pass through 
the doorway and vanish from sight. Her troubled eyes 
sought the windows above, then dropped, as a vision of 
the room materialized in her mind. How wrong it was 
—but how sad! The punishment seemed extreme. 

At this moment a spider crawled over her hands, which 
were clasped in her lap. She brushed it off, with a touch 
of horror and, escaping from the arbour, made her way 
to where Trench had stood, at the lower section of the 
wall. She leaned on it, as he had done, for the sunshine 
had dried the stone. Instinctively She drew in her 
breath, in a sudden fear of the depths below. For the 
wall was built on naked rock that fell away in a precipice. 
It made her giddy to look down and she raised her eyes 
to the view which seemed to embrace all Normandy. 

Wave after wave of mist was rolling over the vast 
plateau, for a light wind had succeeded the rain. It 
might have been grey ocean, pierced by the spires of 
submerged churches. In her mood of nervous tension, it 
seemed to bring home to her the insignificance of man, 
and, as if to heighten the impression, the vapour parted 


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269 

and she could see, on the chess-board formed by alter¬ 
nate crops, a moving line of tiny bodies, ant-like, that 
crawled down a white road, exploring infinity. 

Then, through the silence, the thin note of a bugle 
floated up to her. The line halted, broke its formation 
and merged into a squad of troops that squatted down on 
the grass by the road. The thought flashed through her 
head: “Preparing for another war! France will never 
be satisfied until—” 

She gave herself a shake. This was sheer morbidity. 
Sorrow there was in the world, but there was also happi¬ 
ness. Youth, love, and high endeavour. Now, as the 
mists rolled away, she could appreciate the beauty of the 
fertile country, under a heaven that still, to her, was but 
a veil, hiding God’s face. 

Long she leaned on the warm wall, drinking in the air 
and sunshine, planning, clearing the way before her. 
In ten days she would go to Paris. With Joceline. They 
could be married there. She would see them right in 
the eyes of the world. 

She started, for a door had slammed in the still house 
behind her. As she turned, she saw Trench emerge. She 
went a few paces to meet him, aware of fresh tragedy. 
For his face looked tortured and hopeless. He did not 
speak and she broke the strain: 

“How did she take it? Is she bad? Would you like 
me to go to her?” 

“No—not yet.” He drew her back to the terrace. 
“She hasn’t cried. She seems—frozen.” He met Mrs. 
Bickersteth’s pitiful eyes and broke out bitterly, “But 
she’s done with me! As her mother intended.” 


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270 

“Oh, my dear!” She was trembling. “It’s the shock. 
She doesn’t really mean it. So unexpected. It’s nat¬ 
ural.” 

“No. Mrs. Verney has got her back.” He clenched his 
hands. “There was always that chance. Joceline says 
that we’ve killed her. She was quite just. She blames her¬ 
self. But it’s over.” She heard his teeth grit. He stared 
out into the sunshine. “God knows I did my best, but 
she guessed what had happened from the start. Just 
said: ‘She’s dead! It’s our doing.’ And besides”—he 
brought his hand down on the wall with such force that 
it cut the skin—“she’s got some extraordinary idea that 
there’s a way of reparation. Some religious idea that this 
was‘planned’! I can’t make head or tail of it! But it’s 
her show—I drop out. She told me that if I loved her I 
could prove it by going away for ever.” 

“For a time,” Mrs. Bickersteth corrected, in her most 
soothing voice. “You will have to do that, in any case. 
And give her a chance to recover. But it will all come 
right in the end. You mustn’t despair. Leave her to me. 
And—I don’t mean this unkindly—let her miss you, 
realize what she’s lost.” 

“You think so?” He caught at the straw. 

“I do,” said Mrs. Bickersteth firmly. “I quite expected 
this. The reaction. It’s made her hysterical. Girls are 
often like that. And besides, naturally, she wants to 
think of her mother now. It’s only right that she should. 
You will have to be patient, my dear boy. What is she 
doing?” 

“She’s finishing her packing. She wouldn’t let me help 
her. All she wants is to be alone.” 


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“But Piper could have seen to that.” 

“Is she here?” He seemed to awake to the outside 
world again, relieved by the way this wise old friend had 
met the case, his hope reviving. “I’d like to thank her 
too. Lord, what a time you’re in for!” he groaned. “And 
I can do nothing” He ground his heel into the pavement 
and suddenly saw that his hand was bleeding. Impatient¬ 
ly, he pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed it. “Don’t 
forget Thring. He’ll help you, and he’s clever.” 

“There!” Mrs. Bickersteth’s face brightened. “I had 
forgotten him. Now, let me tie that up for you.” She 
took possession of his hand and effected a rough bandage. 
“But of course we shall wire for Joceline’s relations. Sup¬ 
posing”—she frowned at Trench—“that she wants to take 
the body home?” 

“Then I shall come straight back to England. You’ll 
let me know everything?” 

“I promise you that. But, in return, give me your word 
that you’ll stay away? Anyhow, until after the funeral?” 

He hesitated, then made up his mind. 

“All right. So long as she isn’t ill, or should send for 
me herself.” He muttered, “Though that isn’t likely!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth was satisfied. 

“I shall write to you every day,” she told him. “Is 
there anything else? Let me think.” She closed her 
eyes for a moment, then opened them with a start. “Yes! 
Oliver, you’ve never told me what Mrs. Verney said? I 
can’t ask Joceline now and I think I ought to know.” 
The old thrill swept through her of baffled curiosity. 

“ ‘Said’?” His thoughts had been wandering, his gaze 
fixed on an upper window. 


272 


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“Yes!” Mrs. Bickersteth was impatient. “When she 
wouldn’t give her consent to the match. The reason— 
what she told those men?” 

“Oh, that!” His voice was dull. “She said—” He 
broke off. “Here she is!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth swallowed a certain word forbidden 
at Torlish Manor. For Trench had already deserted her. 

Joceline was coming over the grass, slender in a dark 
serge frock, her dressing-bag in her hand. She walked 
like a woman in a trance, expressionless, her eyes wide, 
deeply blue in her colourless face. But, as Trench 
reached her, she swerved past him, evading his intention, 
as though she could brook no delay. 

He fell into step at her side, nonplussed, and tried to 
relieve her of her burden. As their hands met, the on¬ 
looker, keenly alive to the situation, saw her recoil. 
Trench desisted. 

“My poor child!” Mrs. Bickersteth hurried forward, 
all thought of blame swept from her heart at the sight of 
that frozen face. 

Her motherly arms were outstretched, but Joceline did 
not bend her head to receive the generous kiss. Her body 
was stiff in the other’s embrace. 

“I’m ready,” she said stonily. 

“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Bickersteth sighed. “Then we’ll 
go. I’ll just find Piper, whilst you say good-bye to 
Oliver.” 

“I’ve said good-bye.” 

The words fell, measured, like the toll of a passing-bell. 
Mrs. Bickersteth chose to ignore them. Turning her back 
on the pair, she hurried to the house. 


YOUTH WINS 


2 73 


At her step in the passage, Piper appeared. 

“I’m here, ma’am.” 

“We’re going now.” Mrs. Bickersteth, conscious of 
the door leading into the kitchen beyond, put a finger to 
her lip. “I think I’ll take off my mackintosh.” 

Piper, in silence, helped her, but her old eyes asked a 
question. 

“Bad,” Mrs. Bickersteth whispered. “She hasn’t 
broken down at all. Still, perhaps it’s just as well until 
we get her out of this place.” 

“And him?” Piper asked guardedly. 

But Mrs. Bickersteth had turned. She was looking 
down the garden. There was trouble on her face. 

Joceline, head erect, still lost in some terrible vision, 
was making her way back. In the sunshine, against the 
spring growth and the brilliant patches that clung to the 
walls, she struck a note of tragedy that went to the old 
nurse’s heart. 

“Tck, tck!” she clucked under her breath as she folded 
the mackintosh over her arm. “And him, all alone!” 

For Trench stood, his back to the terrace, like a figure 
turned to stone. Only his grey eyes seemed alive, follow¬ 
ing—following Joceline . . . 


CHAPTER XVI 


ITHOUT Sir Raphael Thring’s help, Mrs. 



Bickersteth decided, she could never have got 


through the days that followed. He had taken 
the main burden on his own capable shoulders, aware of 
the need for haste, for no hotel cares to harbour the dead. 
Joceline’s only maternal relations were her widowed aunt 
and cousin, but the former was ill with influenza and her 
daughter could not leave her. Telegrams came pouring 
in and eventually a Colonel Verney, Joceline’s uncle, 
arrived from Scotland. Beyond taking his niece to the 
funeral, he was too late to be of much use—though in 
time to cavil at arrangements! An ex-cavalry officer, 
accustomed to rule his womenfolk, he resented Joceline’s 
opposition to his opinion that the coffin should be conveyed 
to England for interment in the family vault. 

Her mother had always loved France and once, in an 
illness in Mentone, had expressed the hope that the coun¬ 
try endeared to her by her girlhood should be her last 
resting-place. The memory of this had settled Joceline’s 
remaining doubts. 

Now, at last, it was over. Mrs. Bickersteth relaxed her 
efforts, with that curious, dulled sense of peace which even 
the nearest and dearest must feel when the last rites and 
the last honours have been paid to the mortal shell from 
which the spirit has departed. She could breathe again, 
with a sense of reprieve; no scandal had attached itself to 


YOUTH WINS 


275 

the memory of the dead or the reputation of the living. 
Her plan, backed by Sir Raphael’s forethought, his 
authority and command of the language, had succeeded 
beyond her expectations. 

Colonel Verney had gone back to his interrupted fish¬ 
ing, frigid and exasperated, for Joceline had refused to 
accompany him to England. She left her affairs in his 
hands as trustee for her parent, but showed no interest in 
them. She was dominated by one desire: to return to 
the Convent and Mary Gringold. 

On the drive back from Domfront, her stony composure 
had given way. She had sobbed on Mrs. Bickersteth’s 
shoulder, accusing herself of being the cause of her 
mother’s unforeseen collapse. Since then, there had been 
no tears, save those she shed in secret. The habit of re¬ 
pression, strengthened by the long years, helped her to 
conceal her grief, but she found an outlet for emotion in 
religious mysticism. Only by solitary repentance, the 
negation of her love for Trench, could she make repara¬ 
tion. She would enter the Roman Church and devote her 
life to its service and its beautiful prayers for the dead. 

Mrs. Bickersteth could not shake Joceline’s resolution. 
Her motherly heart ached for Trench when she read his 
despairing letters. It was no use his coming to Bagnoles, 
with the girl in her present state. Far better to wait and 
meet in Paris when her own cure was over and she would 
make a last effort to bring the divided pair together. 

Joceline had written to him once. It was a letter of 
farewell. But Trench would not accept her decision. He 
steeled himself to be patient. 

His latest move had been to leave Mont St. Michel for 


YOUTH WINS 


276 

Paris. He had wired his address there this morning and 
the telegram lay, with her knitting, on Mrs. Bickersteth’s 
broad lap as she sat on the balcony. She had lunched 
with Joceline in the private sitting room which had been 
Lady Carnedin’s, taken for her by Sir Raphael the moment 
he had heard the news. He had overcome the manager’s 
objection that it was reserved for expected guests by en¬ 
gaging the whole suite. Piper slept in the dressing-room, 
to be near the girl at night. Already workmen were em¬ 
ployed in papering the apartment where Mrs. Verney had 
played her last trump in the game of tyrannical possession 
which she dignified by the name of love. 

Yes, she had won! Mrs. Bickersteth agreed with 
Trench in his bitter summing-up. Only one consolation 
remained: Joceline had not guessed the truth. She had 
accepted the doctor’s verdict, confirmed by the discovery 
of a second box of cachets, undoubtedly of the kind Mrs. 
Bickersteth had described. There was no need for an 
autopsy and an added shock to the hotel. The manager 
was too shrewd to awaken suspicion in the girl’s mind 
when she arrived, broken-hearted, from Domfront. 

Now Joceline was only waiting for a reply from the 
Convent to settle the hour of her departure. Mrs. 
Bickersteth felt hopeless as she gazed out over the parched 
grass. 

“Once they get her, they’ll keep her,” she thought, “if 
only for the sake of her money. Yes, the priests will see 
to that! I expect they’ll be Jesuits. The people who 
say that to tell a lie in a good cause is acceptable to God!” 

She shrugged her shoulders scornfully and proceeded 
to wipe her damp brow. Really, the waters were too try- 


YOUTH WINS 


277 

ing in the way they acted on the skin. The heat to-day 
seemed oppressive. The tennis-court scintillated under 
the glare of the sun and the sky held a tinge of copper. 
For a thin veil lay across it. Not a leaf in the garden 
stirred. Even the little French girls had desisted from 
their games and were sitting on the grass with a doll and 
picture book, whilst the boy sprawled, full length, and 
read. Behind them, their mother was sorting her threads, 
preparatory to an onslaught on another square of linen 
destined for casement blinds. 

How thrifty they were, Mrs. Bickersteth thought. 
They rarely sat with idle hands. Even that elderly aris¬ 
tocrat, Mme. de Mesnil, would appear, a bag slung from 
one arm by a bright knot of ribbon, and extract a neat 
little roll of lace to which she was constantly adding, with 
complicated knots and stitches between the braids tacked 
to a strip of supple American cloth. The Countess had 
been good to Joceline. She had offered to take her back 
to their chateau in Perigord where she could have the 
seclusion she needed and the comfort and advice of the 
old family priest. 

Always the same story, Mrs. Bickersteth decided, that 
of religious propaganda! She was glad Joceline had de¬ 
clined the reiterated invitation. In Paris there might be 
a chance for Trench, with patience and perseverance. 

But Mme. de Mesnil had other views. She proposed 
visiting Jean’s parents, who lived in a narrow, gloomy old 
house in the Faubourg St. Germain. The Convent would 
do, for an interval. If Joceline adopted her own faith, it 
would pave the way to that alliance which she desired now 
more than ever. What a fortune, juste del! 


YOUTH WINS 


278 

Mrs. Bickersteth, unaware of this, drowsily began to 
plan, her eyes fixed on the lake, hypnotized by the water. 

She was aroused from her dreams by a sound behind 
her. 

“Is that you, Piper?” She turned her head and the old 
maid came to the window. “I suppose it’s nearly the hour 
for my drive. I must go and see Miss Verney first.” She 
rose and mechanically held out the knitting and telegram. 
“I’m hoping she will come with me. A little air is what 
she needs.” She stepped up into the room and was moving 
to the door when there came a tap on it. “Entrez!” she 
cried, surprised, and Joceline appeared on the threshold. 

White-faced and repressed, in her straight black frock, 
the hair brushed back from her temples, she might al¬ 
ready have been a nun, save for the sombre veil. 

Mrs. Bickersteth, with an effort, greeted her cheer¬ 
fully: 

“Oh, there you are! Just as I was thinking of you.” 
She disclosed her plan. “Such a lovely afternoon. It 
would be nice in the forest.” 

“I don’t think I must—now.” The girl took a step 
forward. “Though it’s sweet of you. But you’re always 
so kind.” With a sudden impulse, rare of late, she laid 
a hand on the other’s arm and pressed it. “How I shall 
miss you! I’m off to-morrow. I’ve just had a letter from 
the Convent.” 

“To-morrow?” Mrs. Bickersteth was startled. “Oh, 
dear! And I can’t let—” She pulled herself up, but 
Joceline divined her intention. 

“You mustn’t. I know what you were thinking. It’s 
no good. That’s—over. I want him to go away and for- 


YOUTH WINS 


279 

get me.” She added slowly, “I’m not going to give him 
my address,” and saw her companion start. 

“But you’ll give it to me?” Mrs. Bickersteth sounded 
frightened. “I should be very hurt if you didn’t. How 
am I to find you in Paris?” 

Joceline smiled faintly. 

“You mustn’t be hurt. I will tell you. But you must 
keep it a secret from—him.” She went on in the voice 
that had lost its youthful resonance, “It may sound cruel, 
but it isn’t. I’ve made up my mind. Nothing can change 
me. So what is the use of another meeting that would 
only break his heart?” 

“And yours.” Mrs. Bickersteth’s eyes were shrewd. 

Joceline, despite her control, flinched. 

They had both of them forgotten Piper, discreet, at the 
other end of the room, but the old nurse was watching the 
girl. 

“That can’t be helped.” She saw Mrs. Bickersteth’s 
scepticism and checked the threatened argument. “I 
mustn’t waste time. There’s my packing to finish. I’ve 
sent a wire to say I’m coming and I’m off by the early 
train. It’s better so. Here I feel—” She bit her lip, 
aware that the tears were not far from her eyes. 

“But, dear, you must give me your address?” Mrs. 
Bickersteth persisted. 

“Only if you’ll:—spare him?” 

The harassed lady made up her mind. 

“Very well. For the present. So long as you promise 
to come and see me as soon as I arrive in Paris?” 

She knew of old the girl’s obstinacy and she dared not 
lose trace of her. 


28 o 


YOUTH WINS 


“I’ll do that,” said Joceline simply. She prayed that, 
by then, her future life might be settled. Irrevocable. It 
would give her strength. “I’ll come to your hotel, with 
Mary.” 

“That’s right.” Mrs. Bickersteth already was making 
fresh plans. Oliver there—a surprise! She came back to 
the present. “Couldn’t Piper pack for you?” 

“It’s very kind, but I’d sooner do it. I shall send most 
of the luggage home.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth nodded. She realized that Joceline 
wanted to be alone, faced with those saddest of sad relics, 
the garments worn by the dead. 

“Then we’ll meet this evening, dear. Would you like 
me to dine with you, as usual?” 

“Oh, please do? Our last night together.” As if to 
put a final ban on argument, she added quickly, “But I 
shall go to bed early.” 

“Yes, you must.” Mrs. Bickersteth watched her de¬ 
part and turned, with a sigh ; to see Piper, waiting. “Oh, 
you’re there! I suppose you heard? It’s a bad business, 
Nanna. I begin to despair for that poor boy.” 

“I’m not so sure,” said the old nurse briskly. “Did you 
see how she couldn’t say his name? She’s beginning to 
get over the shock. Now, ma’am, your hat.” She handed 
it. “And don’t you go grieving. I’ve a notion things will 
come right yet. She’s one of them that goes to extremes. 
First she runs away with a man, and then she wants to be 
a nun! Perhaps it’s from being kept down so long, poor 
young lady—though I’m sure I don’t know which is worst! 
And she mayn’t find the Convent all it was. She’s for- 


YOUTH WINS 


281 


gotten the bad days there, as we all do when we think of 
our childhood. But I wish she hadn’t all that money.” 

“Ah, that’s my fear! They’ll be after it.” 

“They will.” Piper’s thin lips snapped. “Your hat 
isn’t straight, ma’am,” she said severely. Mrs. Bicker- 
steth turned again to the glass and remedied the error. 
“That’s better. And your gloves?” 

She buttoned them and produced a sunshade. 

Mrs. Bickersteth sailed forth. She preferred to be 
alone for the drive. There was not only Joceline’s future, 
but Elsie’s, on her mind. Aware of the tragedy in which 
his wife was involved, the Squire of Torlish had insisted 
on the discussion being waived until their approaching 
visit to Paris. Far better to talk things over. There was 
no hurry, he explained—in the teeth of Elsie’s furious ob¬ 
jection! Why couldn’t “the mater” leave strangers alone 
and attend to her own family? All this nonsense about 
love when what England needed was work. Just like 
mother, match-making again! And a nice mess she’d got 
into this time! 

She wrote to Piper secretly and received a tart letter 
in reply, that weakened a shade at the end. The last of 
her children—and the dearest! Piper was loyal to her 
mistress, but a vision of keeping house at the farm, Miss 
Elsie under her own wing, rose and haunted her waking 
hours. 

She tidied the room and, once again, searched in the 
linen drawer. No, the socks were not there. The valet 
de chambre must have stolen them. And there was a 
handkerchief missing too, one of the best ones, a present 


282 


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from Miss Christabel. Piper sighed. She must have 
another hunt for it, but first she must go out for the cakes. 
The shop would be full later on and no one pleasant or 
willing to serve her. Talk about the French being courte¬ 
ous ! Why, their tempers flared up at the slightest touch 
and then how they shrieked at you and flapped their hands 
in your face! Almost as if they wanted to fight you. 
Dangerous too, with those pointed nails. 

It was stifling in the town. Dark clouds were gather¬ 
ing fast and Piper looked up at the sky, a tight hand on 
her purchases. A motor shot round the corner by Guyot’s, 
raising a cloud of dust. As she was getting it out of her 
eyes, the storm broke overhead. First a vivid flash of 
lightning and, without a pause, the thunder, then the rain, 
lashing down, arrows that beat on the dusty pavement. 

An umbrella was very little protection. Piper saw that 
she would be soaked before she could reach the hotel. 
Across the road, a pair of women were hurrying up the 
steps of a church. They reached the door, drew the 
leather curtain aside and vanished. Piper followed them. 

Although she would not have confessed it and was al¬ 
ways “brave” before her children, she was inwardly afraid 
of lightning. It was safer to be under cover. She made 
her way breathlessly into the dim interior. 

It was her first experience of a Roman Catholic place 
of worship and she looked round her, apprehensive, yet 
filled with curiosity. She felt herself conspicuous in the 
open space near the door. On tiptoe, she stole up the side 
aisle with a sense of intrusion for, here and there, was a 
solitary figure kneeling, and the faint click of a rosary 


YOUTH WINS 283 

broke the tense silence between the thunder that echoed 
in the lofty roof. 

She came at last to a little chapel, lit by a feeble lamp, 
void of windows and deserted. Here was an ideal refuge. 
Gathering courage, she sat down on one of the chairs at 
the back. Such a queer, low chair with a shelf on the 
top! Still, rather comfortable, if you sat with your feet 
well apart. Her thoughts turned to her mistress. An open 
carriage and all those trees! Piper was worrying. 

Presently a lady entered, genuflected, and knelt down 
on the pavement before the altar. There was something 
so brisk in her movements that Piper felt a forbidden 
amusement, watching her bowed head jerk to the rattle 
of her beads; then the swift way she crossed herself, rose 
to her feet, bent the knee again and prepared for depar¬ 
ture. It was like some business transaction! 

As she turned to go, Piper saw a handkerchief lying on 
the floor, unrealized by the owner. Habit, too strong for 
the old nurse, sent her forward to retrieve it. 

“Your handkerchief, ma’am.” She had picked it up. 

“Mine?” The lady, surprised, took it. “So it is! 
Thank you so much.” 

An Englishwoman? Piper smiled. 

“A pity to lose it, ma’am,” she responded. 

“Yes. Though it should be safe here” Her lowered 
voice was both friendly and gay. 

Piper missed the intention. 

“It ought to be, in a church, ma’am. But one never 
knows,” she said darkly. 

“I meant,” the lady explained more fully, “safe in dear 
St. Anthony’s keeping. This chapel is dedicated to him.” 


YOUTH WINS 


284 

Piper stiffened. She had followed the other’s glance to 
where a figure, in painted plaster, dingy and with a 
chipped nose, dominated the crowded altar, with its paper 
flowers and silvered tributes. A “graven image”! Why 
had she come here? She mumbled something and tried to 
escape. 

Unluckily, the lady before her was a recent “convert,” 
filled with the zeal of those born in another faith. She 
saw in Piper a “soul to save.” 

She patted the row of chairs by her side. 

“Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you about him.” 

Piper was forced to submit. She could find no excuse 
on the spur of the moment except a feeble: “I mustn’t be 
long, ma’am,” lost in a violent clap overhead. 

“St. Anthony,” said the lady, as if she were talking 
to a child, “is the Saint who finds things when they’re 
lost.” 

She poured it all out into Piper’s ear as the thunder 
came in shattering volleys and the old nurse listened, her 
nerves on edge. After all, it was company and the church 
might be struck any moment! Against her will, she was 
interested when she heard that “the blessed St. Anthony” 
had once brought home a strayed lap-dog. He certainly 
wasn’t ornamental, but he seemed to lead a useful life. 

“I see, ma’am,” she said at last, when the lady paused 
for breath. “An offering and then he finds it?” 

“And prayer” said the lady urgently. She started, as 
through a sudden silence came the booming note of the 
clock, beating down from the tower. “I must go!” 

Rising from the outside seat, she freed the helpless 
victim, and said farewell with a kind smile. 


YOUTH WINS 285 

She had sown the good seed; she would leave it to work 
in the tough soil of that heretic heart. 

It still thundered at intervals, though the storm was 
moving towards the hills. Piper waited, listening. She 
was battling with a secret temptation. After all, there was 
the line in her creed about the “Communion of Saints,” 
though she couldn’t remember St. Anthony among those 
certified by the prayer-book. It might be worth it—and 
no one would know! She opened her worn, black purse 
and examined the contents. A ten-franc note and three 
sous. You could hardly offer a Saint coppers? Then she 
remembered! 

In the flap was an English sixpence, wrapped in paper. 
She took it out and looked at it. Would it be wrong? She 
thought of the minister at home, and suddenly made up 
her mind. She couldn’t stand the minister’s wife! And 
she wasn’t going to be patronized. This wasn’t England; 
it was France. 

She rose and, approaching the altar, gazed up at St. 
Anthony. He looked kind and rather humble. Piper laid 
her offering down, close to his sandalled feet. 

“I’m not going to kneel to you,” she said. “It doesn’t 
seem right. You understand? But here’s sixpence and 
I’ll be glad if you’ll find those socks for me?” 

It was done! There was no turning back. Piper fled, 
as an ancient crone shuffled in, with that flat, religious 
tread which is the same all over the world, and gave her a 
suspicious glance, moving to a little stand with spikes and 
impaled candles. 

The old nurse drew a breath of relief when she found 
herself on the steps outside. The rain had ceased and in 


286 


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the air was the smell of moist earth and the incense of 
leaves, washed free from their burden of dust. She must 
get home and have a hunt for the missing handkerchief. 
A pity she hadn’t included it in her request to St. Anthony. 
Still, sixpence wasn’t very much? 

She put the plan into execution as soon as she reached 
her mistress’ room. She went through every drawer 
methodically, and every pocket, and finally looked under 
the bed. No use—it was gone! 

On the counterpane was lying Mrs. Bickersteth’s knit¬ 
ting-bag. Piper’s gaze fell on it. 

“That’ud be just like her,” she thought, an indulgent 
twinkle in her eye. 

She picked it up, loosened the strings and shook out the 
contents. The first object to bounce on the duvet was— 
she gave a sharp exclamation—a tightly rolled pair of 
socks! 

The socks ... St. Anthony! 

Piper collapsed on a chair, for her legs felt absurdly 
shaky. Quick work! Who would have thought it? Of 
course she ought to have looked there before—this idea, 
somehow, was comforting. Piper, superstitious, had a 
nervous horror of “black magic.” But what ought she to 
do now? Thank him. It was only proper. She closed 
her eyes for a moment and hoped he wouldn’t think her 
grudging. Then she prepared for action. She would send 
off the socks at once and write a letter to explain. 
Wouldn’t Mr. Trench be pleased! 

His address was on the telegram which she had placed 
on the writing-table. Everything she needed was there 


YOUTH WINS 287 

and her mistress wouldn’t mind. She could use the hotel 
paper. She sat down to her task and laboriously evolved 
the missive. She belonged to the old class, now fast dying 
out, that places scholastic attainment second to a knowl¬ 
edge of work. She was invariably baffled by the right 
use of “has” and “as” and the place to put a capital, but 
this did not really trouble her. For few could beat her at 
her task, which was to turn out into the world children 
healthy in body and mind. Her instincts were unim¬ 
paired; her ability strengthened by concentration: a point 
at times overlooked by a generation apt to lose sight of 
the main object of education. Namely, to prepare the 
young for the battle of life and not to provide them with 
a smattering of knowledge spread over so wide a field that 
half of it must be dumped overboard when the ship sails 
out of harbour. What she knew, she knew thoroughly. 
She wasn’t “expected to be a scholar.” So, when the letter 
was finished she read it through, well-pleased. 

Then a happy thought struck her. She picked up the 
pen again and added a short postscript. He would like 
to know that, poor young man! 

She placed the page with the socks in a parcel, glanced 
at the clock anxiously and, once more, resumed her out¬ 
door clothes. The post office was near at hand. 

As she hurried down the road, she noticed that it felt 
“like socks” and decided to register the package. This 
took time and a heated explanation. Still, it was safer; 
the French weren’t honest. With the receipt in her hand 
she fled back to the hotel. 

As she reached the door, Mrs. Bickersteth drove up. 


288 


YOUTH WINS 


Piper's heart reproached her. No tea—no kettle boiling! 

“Are you wet, ma’am?” She helped her mistress down. 
“I’ve been worriting about you.” 

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Bickersteth sounded quite cheerful. 
“I took shelter in a church. Such a quaint little place, 
called the Chapel of St. Ortaire.” 

“No, ma’am?” On the tip of the old nurse’s tongue 
rose the words: “So did I!” but she swallowed them. 
Wiser not. She was longing to know how the socks had 
“got there,” but she was certain that her mistress would 
not approve of St. Anthony. “I was caught in the storm 
too,” she said, and smiled at her secret thoughts. 


CHAPTER XVII 


L ATE on a May evening, Mrs. Bickersteth arrived in 
Paris, conscious of a duty performed. She was 
thankful that the cure was over. Oddly enough, 
in leaving Bagnoles, she had experienced a touch of re¬ 
gret. Its leafy beauty remained with her, intensified by 
the contrast of the arid country through which they had 
passed as the train bore them north; the depopulated air 
of France, the long, straight roads with their lopped pol¬ 
lards and the fields where, prematurely old, the women 
bent, tilling the soil. 

Everywhere she had divined a harsh struggle for exist¬ 
ence; ceaseless thrift and frugality. She wondered if, 
after all, Torlish were right in its opinion that France was 
“too grasping” and held “no excuse” for the invasion of 
the Ruhr. 

Meditating in her corner of the empty compartment, 
she realized how much she had changed in these weeks 
spent abroad. They had widened her sympathies to an 
alarming extent. Here she was, Mrs. Bickersteth of Tor¬ 
lish Manor, involved in a case of suicide, screening it from 
the authorities, and helping deliberately a couple who had 
transgressed moral laws! 

With her unfailing candour, she swept aside the insidi¬ 
ous excuse that her interest in the offenders was solely to 
see them “properly” married. She knew that the romance 
enchained her. To such an extent that, on the morrow, 

289 


2 9 o YOUTH WINS 

she was going to a Catholic convent to plead with a pro¬ 
spective nun! 

Although she could not exonerate Trench from his share 
in the adventure, pity had outweighed her judgment. She 
was grateful to him for the way he had answered her hur¬ 
ried letter on the eve of Joceline’s departure from Bag- 
noles. She felt, in withholding the address, that she had 
failed the harassed lover. 

He had taken it philosophically, somewhat to her sur¬ 
prise, but his latest news puzzled her. It had come in the 
form of a telegram stating that he was called to England 
on business, but would return to Paris and see her as soon 
as she arrived. She hoped that she would find a letter 
awaiting her at the hotel, and one from Joceline too. For 
the last five days she had been silent. Mrs. Bickersteth 
was feeling anxious. Was it the influence of the Con¬ 
vent? 

It was good to be in Paris again with its lights and 
gaiety, its crowded cafes, flowers and hat-shops. Piper 
too, was well content. This was the half-way-house for 
home. Mrs. Bickersteth, a true woman, felt a sudden itch 
for shopping. She would buy Elsie a “Paris hat.” The 
child had been very patient of late—or so her parent fond¬ 
ly imagined—and she deserved a reward. 

Piper approved the idea. She loved to see her children 
smart and admired in the village. She was long¬ 
ing to get back there and to talk about her travels, but she 
did not regret this week in Paris. It would set the cap 
on her foreign experience and pave the way with other 
maids. She had not forgiven Marie yet for suggesting 
that she was buried alive! 


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291 


Mrs. Bickersteth’s first impression of the hotel in the 
Cours Albert Premier was dimmed by the driver’s rapacity. 
Happily, the porter spoke English. The manager came 
forward to greet her; for Lady Carnedin’s introduction 
might lead to another regular client. A maid too. She 
must be rich. He always went out of his way to make 
maids comfortable. They dined at his own table. “Equal¬ 
ity and Fraternity” paidl 

At seven o’clock Mrs. Bickersteth went down to the 
square room with its glass roof that had once been the 
courtyard of a nobleman’s house. It was built between 
two wings, with a gallery in one of them, divided from 
those at table by a screen of plate glass, a dark retreat for 
the smokers. But the salle-a-manger was bright and 
cheerful and Mrs. Bickersteth approved it. 

The food left her indifferent. It had almost an English 
flavour! There were boiled potatoes with the meat, fol¬ 
lowed by a baked rice pudding somewhat disguised by 
caramel. She tasted the latter dubiously—and tried to 
feel patriotic. Yes, it had come to that! 

There was no communication from Trench. This 
worried her, delaying her plans. But first she must see 
Joceline. She decided to go early to bed, after a glance 
in the salon and a cold stare from scattered units of her 
own countrywomen. It gave her the feeling of having 
intruded on a dentist’s waiting-room. Entrenched behind 
a paper or book, they sat there, silent sentinels of a race 
whose charity begins at home—and stays there, through 
a stubborn shyness. 

Mrs. Bickersteth went up in the lift with a cheerful 
American lady who smiled and remarked that the “eleva- 


292 YOUTH WINS 

tor” was “terribly small,” as they fitted themselves into 
the seat. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bickersteth coldly, though inwardly 
surprised and pleased. 

When she stepped out of the lift, she bowed—and that 
ended their acquaintance! 

But to-morrow she would have her husband. She could 
picture him now, midway, under Adela’s hospitable roof. 
How nice it would be to see him again and pour out her 
adventures into his sympathetic ears. Richard was al¬ 
ways content to listen. Sometimes this made life rather 
dull, as his wife enjoyed conversation at meals and it 
devolved on herself. Still one couldn’t have everything, 
she thought, and Richard was so “dependable.” 

“I shan’t sleep, in a new bed,” she murmured into her 
pillow, closed her eyes resignedly—and awoke when Piper 
tapped on the door, with her morning cup of tea! 

Mrs. Bickersteth stared at the clock, amazed. 

“That’s my cure,” she decided. “I’m really well. And 
what a glorious day!” 

The light, exciting air of Paris streamed in through the 
open window. She could see the high boughs of trees that 
fringed the road where the top-heavy trams were purring 
past with an intermittent tinkle of bells, and, beyond this, 
the blue of the Seine and a sparkle of gold and ivory as 
the sun kissed the nearest bridge. 

She lingered pleasantly over her breakfast, the croissants 
and curled pats of butter. In another week she would have 
to be up and dressed, behind the silver urn—setting a 
good example! Richard liked her to be with him and to 
cut her a “thin slice” of ham. He would put the plate 


YOUTH WINS 


293 

down before her, say: “There, dear,” and she would say: 
“Thank you.” For this she rose at seven each morning. 

Really, the French way seemed better. 

“I’m getting demoralized,” she thought, and summoned 
Piper to search for a bath-room. 

An hour later they sallied forth. The porter .had found 
them a taxi-auto and issued instructions to the driver, 
hampered by Mrs. Bickersteth, who decided that the 
Champs Ely sees would be a “short cut” to Passy! He 
gauged at once the extent of their knowledge and drove 
direct to the Place de la Concorde, to join in the stream 
already flowing impetuously to the Etoile. Even Piper 
admired the width of the road and its avenue of chestnuts, 
against the white splendour of the buildings bathed in the 
golden light. Circling round the Arc de Triomphe, they 
dashed down the Avenue du Bois; then up the Rue Spon- 
tini and into a maze of quiet streets, to halt at last before 
a door in a high and formidable wall. 

“This must be it.” Mrs. Bickersteth felt a sinking at 
her heart as she got out, assisted by Piper, and crossed 
the narrow strip of pavement. “I’d better ring, I sup¬ 
pose?” 

She pulled an iron handle that hung from a bar at the 
side and they heard a bell clang far away with a dull and 
rusty note. After a pause the sound of steps shuffling 
down a paved path made Mrs. Bickersteth straighten her 
hat. But the massive door remained closed. 

Suddenly a little shutter on a level with her eyes slid 
back. Through the bars of a grille she could see a suspi¬ 
cious, wrinkled face that reminded her of a squeezed 
lemon, so tightly was it nipped in the white linen enclos- 


YOUTH WINS 


294 

ing it, buttoned under the peaked chin. Above it was the 
dark hood and, in its shadow, eyes like sloes peered 
at her inquiringly. 

Mrs. Bickersteth, recovering her wits, asked if she could 
see Miss Verney. 

In a still and expressionless voice, the portress ex¬ 
plained that Miss Verney had left. 

“ Left?” Mrs. Bickersteth was confounded. a She can’t 
have left!” She turned to Piper. “They say she’s gone. 
It’s a trick, I believe! They don’t want me to see her.” 

“Ask the address, ma’am,” Piper prompted. 

But the old nun disclaimed the knowledge. 

“Then I must see the Mother Superior.” Mrs. Bicker- 
steth’s voice rose. “I insist on seeing her! ” 

This was a tactical error. The portress explained that 
the Reverend Mother was invisible—at her devotions. 
Madame had better write a letter. Calm and immovable, 
she began to slide back the little shutter. Mrs. Bicker¬ 
steth, at the end of her patience, put her fingers through 
the bars and resisted valiantly. 

“Can I speak to Miss Mary Gringold?” 

The nun’s lips tightened. She resented that gloved 
hand, interfering with her rights. 

Madame was deceiving herself. There was no visitor 
now at the Convent. The name she mentioned was un¬ 
known. 

In despair, Mrs. Bickersteth lowered her arm. She 
heard a click. The shutter had closed! 

“Just as I thought! It’s a prison. They’ve got her 
there under lock and key. Oh, what shall we do, 
Nanna?” 


YOUTH WINS 


295 

“I should write, ma’am, as she said.” Piper was bit¬ 
terly aware that the driver was watching them and grin¬ 
ning. “And I’d register the letter. I don’t trust that old 
woman. You’re quite sure it’s the right address?” 

“Quite.” Mrs. Bickersteth searched in her bag and 
produced a scrap of paper. There it was, in Joceline’s 
hand. “I suppose we’d better return home?” 

She looked so woebegone that Piper had an inspiration. 

“A pity, ma’am, this nice weather. Couldn’t we get 
Miss Elsie’s hat?” 

“We could.” Mrs. Bickersteth sighed. “Oh, dear, I’m 
so disappointed. Everything’s going wrong! I wonder 
if Mr. Trench is back?” 

“Sure to be, soon. He'll help us.” The old nurse’s 
voice was soothing. “Hadn’t we best be starting, 
ma’am? That taxi’s eating money.” 

They got in and directed the chauffeur to Lady Carne- 
din’s pet hat-shop. But all the joy of Paris had fled. 
Their worst fears had been realized. Joceline was either 
hidden there, or sent away to another convent until she 
had assumed the veil: no one would be allowed to see her 
whilst all that money hung in the balance. 

Piper pinned her hopes on Trench. 

“But what can he do?" her mistress wailed. 

“There’s always the police,” said Piper. “They can’t 
spirit her away”—she smiled grimly—“an Englishwoman! 
And Mr. Bickersteth’s coming to-day. He’s a magistrate. 
They won’t try on any nonsense with him! So you must 
cheer up, ma’am. He’ll expect you to be looking your 
best.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth straightened her shoulders. 


YOUTH WINS 


296 

“Yes, you’re right. I mustn’t be selfish. Where are 
we?” She looked about her. “Ah, that must be the 
Madeleine.” 

The taxi dived down a side street and drew up with a 
jerk. Mrs. Bickersteth made calculations and once more 
fought vainly to keep down expenses. 

“I can’t see any shop,” said Piper. 

“It’s upstairs. On the first floor. I don’t think we’ll 
take the lift,” she decided, when they reached it. “It’s 
one of those alone, with buttons.” 

“Then I shouldn’t, ma’am.” Piper restrained her. 

They walked up, peered through an open door, and 
ventured in. No one took any notice of them, for all the 
vendeuses were engaged. A chatter of English voices 
reached them from a group of women trying on hats ex¬ 
citedly before a mirror. 

“Let’s have a look round first,” Mrs. Bickersteth ad¬ 
vised, and moved to a centre table filled with millinery on 
stands. “Nothing here.” Her voice was decided. “They 
look so dull . I want colour—something bright, for Miss 
Elsie.” She sailed on to the window and another tableful 
of hats. “Now, that’s nice!” She selected one. “Such 
pretty flowers and it looks more trimmed.” She balanced 
the hat on her hand. “I really think I’ll try it on. I can 
judge better on my head.” 

She proceeded to do so, Piper watching her critically, 
as she pressed down the hard, brown straw, with its wreath 
of pink roses fastened by a flat bow. 

“Yes, it’s pretty. Shady too.” Mrs. Bickersteth was 
pleased. “Though of course it’s too young for me. But 
smart and really Parisian—any one could see that! A 


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297 

little tight, but it could be stretched.” She took it off and 
looked inside it. “Why, Piper, how extraordinary!” 

Amazed, she pointed with her finger. There, on the 
white lining, in gilt letters was inscribed: D. H. Evans, 
Oxford St.! 

At that moment an angry voice behind them brought 
the staggering truth home: 

“That’s mine!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth wheeled round, to have the hat 
snatched from her hand, by one of the Cook’s tourists; a 
tall girl with ruffled hair, in a waterproof coat, a camera 
strapped across one shoulder and, to balance it, a rope of 
pearls—too good to be true! 

“I’m sorry.” Mrs. Bickersteth spoke with dignity. 
“But I couldn’t possibly tell it was yours. It was placed 
upon a stand.” 

“You could see that it wasn’t new!” 

With this parting shot, the owner retreated, with an air 
of having scored. 

“What manners! ” fumed Piper. “We’d best go into the 
other room, ma’am.” 

They retired, in order. Once out of sight, Mrs. Bicker- 
steth’s sense of humour was stirred. 

“How absurd! ” She chuckled. “You mustn’t tell Miss 
Elsie. I should never hear the last of it, Nanna.” She 
looked round her despairingly. “Really, the hats here 
are dowdy! I don’t think much of this place. I think 
we’d better go on to the Louvre.” 

But, at this moment, there entered the room a little 
lady, dark-haired, with a white face, vivid lips and an 
amazing allurement. She picked up one of the hats that 


YOUTH WINS 


298 

had been condemned as “dowdy,” drew it, from the nape 
of her neck, forward onto her sleek head, gave it a poke 
on one side, patted the curls on her cheekbones, opened 
her bag, drew out a lip-stick, dabbed it on her pursed 
mouth, peered at the effect in the glass and murmured 
throatily: “Tres bien!” 

And so it was! 

Mrs. Bickersteth, hypnotized, nudged Piper. 

“That’s the one—if she doesn’t take it! I can just see 
Miss Elsie in it.” 

Fortune favoured them. The elegant Parisian lost her 
heart to another hat, equally “untrimmed,” which, on 
her head underwent the same magical transformation. A 
vendeuse appeared and they talked—how they talked! 
Eventually the customer powdered her face and went 
away, wearing the second choice. Mrs. Bickersteth 
secured the first. 

All the way home she had qualms. Would Elsie like 
it? It “looked nothing” and yet it had been more expen¬ 
sive than her mother deemed possible. 

What a morning! She felt exhausted by the time they 
reached the hotel, with the crowded pavements, the halts 
at shop-windows, and the nervous strain of crossing the 
roads. 

“After lunch you’d best lay down,” Piper ordered in 
the lift. “Then you’ll be feeling rested, ma’am, by the 
time Mr. Bickersteth arrives. Or he’ll think the cure’s 
done you no good.” 

There was craft in the familiar suggestion. If her mis¬ 
tress slept—as she would—she’d forget about those young 


YOUTH WINS 


299 

pecple. For Piper had inquired at the office and there 
was no message from Trench. 

Mrs. Bickersteth sat in the empty salon , reading an 
English magazine which she had found on the table, be¬ 
tween excursions to the window every time that a taxi 
drew up. She became absorbed in a story with a strong 
vein of romance. 

The door opened. She raised her eyes, to see the well- 
remembered figure, surveying her with a quiet smile. 

“Why, Richard!” She struggled up. “I never heard 
you arrive! How are you? A good crossing?” Happi¬ 
ness flooded her at his kiss and the familiar, peaty smell 
of his old travelling coat. “You’re thinner!” She stared 
up at him. 

“So are you.” 

“No?” She was pleased. “That’s the baths and exer¬ 
cise.” 

“But you’re looking well.” He patted her arm. “I’ve 
brought a little surprise for you.” 

“I’m the surprise,” said a gay young voice, and, round 
the half-open door, came a laughing, sun-burnt face, with 
short brown hair, hazel eyes, and a wide, clean mouth 
like a school-boy’s, twisted in a mischievous grin. 

“Elsie!” Mrs. Bickersteth could hardly credit her 
senses. “My dear child!” She enfolded her daughter in 
what was known at Torlish Manor as “the mater’s bunny- 
hug.” 

Elsie submitted—and escaped. 

“I worried father until he brought me!” 


300 


YOUTH WINS 


“Ah, now we have the truth at last.” Mr. Bickersteth’s 
grey eyes twinkled. “She pretended it was to look after 
me.” 

“Well, you needed it!” Elsie retorted. She caught her 
mother’s amused expression and explained succinctly. “I 
only left him for five minutes whilst I went down to change 
my money and when I got back to the deck, there he was, 
deep in a conversation with the prettiest woman on the 
boat!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth looked from one face to the other and 
chuckled. 

“Oh, Rickard!” 

“She’s exaggerating,” he told her calmly. “The lady’s 
cloak caught on my chair. She was walking up and down 
with her husband. One of those knitted ones, you know, 
and it took time to get it free as, unluckily, there was a 
nail.” 

“Of course it took time.” Elsie rejoiced. “Pretty 
work!” 

“Come, come!” The Squire frowned. “We’re keeping 
your mother standing. You’d better go up and see your 
room.” 

“We’ll all go up,” his wife told him. “Piper is making 
you some tea. I thought you’d like it after your journey. 
What’s this?” She looked at a parcel which he had drawn 
from his deep coat pocket and was holding out to her. 

“Tea,” said Mr. Bickersteth, with his usual economy 
of words. 

“How thoughtful of you!” She was touched. 

“It was Adela,” he confessed, as they went out to the 
lift. 


YOUTH WINS 


301 

“Dear Adela,” Mrs. Bickersteth purred. “Where is 
this child going to sleep ?” 

“In a little room next door to Nanna.” 

“So that I shall be quite safe! ” Elsie put in solemnly. 

What dears they were, she thought. But if only they’d 
understand that she was grown-up. In fact older, in many 
ways, than her parents. A faint cloud fell on her spirits. 
Behind the joy of a visit to Paris was the desire to force 
the issue concerning her immediate future. She meant 
to get Nanna on her side. 

The old nurse was delighted to see her. She carried her 
off after tea with the excuse of unpacking, for she was 
longing for Torlish news. As she left the room, Elsie 
looked back, a silent entreaty in her eyes. 

Something in the young face caught Mrs. Bickersteth’s 
attention, kindling a secret flame of romance. With her 
smooth, bobbed hair, boyish figure, resolute mouth and 
candid eyes, this young daughter of hers might have been 
some young knight setting forth to crown his spurs—see¬ 
ing afar the Holy Grail! 

And suddenly she thought of Joceline. 

In that moment, she made up her mind. The battle 
with Youth was over. 

“Now, dear!” She sat down, facing her husband as he 
stood with his back to the mantelpiece. “I want to know 
first what you’ve decided about this Agricultural Col¬ 
lege?” 

“Decided?” The Squire frowned. “I could hardly do 
that away from you. Besides,” he added hastily, “she’s 
a girl and you’re the best judge.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth sighed. How like Richard! 


302 


YOUTH WINS 


“Well, we can’t leave it at that,” she said. “The ques¬ 
tion is, can we afford it?” 

“I think so. With care. Fownes is after the shooting 
again.” 

“But there are other ways.” Mrs. Bickersteth was 
thinking. “There’s Grandmamma’s portrait—the Hopp- 
ner. It’s mine and I can do as I like. Paignton 
would give me a good price. He’s always been keen to 
buy it. I don’t see why you should lose your shooting. 
It isn’t as if you hunted now. Yes, Grandmamma can 
go.” 

Her husband stirred. Leaning forward, he put a hand 
on her shoulder. 

“Your grandmother shall not go.” Their eyes met, 
grave and tender, filled with the spirit of sacrifice. “I 
can manage. I’m getting on and long days with the guns 
tire me. Besides it means entertaining. It isn’t as if 
there were the boy. That’s made”—he paused—“a dif¬ 
ference. Now we have to think of his sisters.” He saw 
her lip tremble and went on quickly, “You want Elsie to 
have this chance?” She nodded her head. “Very well. 
You can tell her that it’s settled.” 

“How good you are!” She rose and kissed him; then 
wiped her eyes, unashamed. “I’ll help you and econo¬ 
mize. I can, if I put my mind to it. And I’m well now.” 
She smiled bravely. “I walked back, from beyond the 
Madeleine this morning. Fancy that! Oh, and I bought 
the child a hat.” 

“Then you’d better present it and afterwards you can 
tell her our decision. Mind you, there’s nothing settled 
yet about that farm.” He hesitated. “We shall see. But 


YOUTH WINS 


303 


it might be possible, and Henry wouldn’t turn her out. At 
present, sufficient unto the day! Now I’ll go and find her 
for you.” 

He went, glad to escape from an atmosphere of emotion. 
Rarely did he show his feelings. But he loved his wife 
and was proud of her. 

Presently, Elsie came in with the same questioning 
glance. She found her mother by the window, staring 
out at the river. She turned at the sound of the closing 
door. 

“That you, my dear? Here’s a birthday present—in 
advance!” Beaming, she pointed to a round cardboard 
box with an ornate label. “I was going to bring it home 
with me, but now I think you’d better have it, to wear in 
Paris.” 

“A hat?” Elsie forced a smile. She had dreamed of 
choosing one herself. And mother’s taste was archaic! 
All the same, she must play up! “I say, how precious. 
Thanks awfully, mater!” 

She began to unfasten the string. 

“I hope you’ll like it. It’s very simple.” Mrs. Bicker- 
steth watched anxiously as Elsie dived into the tissue- 
paper. “You have to arrange it to suit you, but I think 
I could show you how.” 

Elsie had drawn out the hat. She gave it one look, ran 
to the glass, pulled it on from the back, dragged out a 
smooth lock on each cheek, gave the crown a little poke 
and wheeled round, her eyes shining. 

“It’s lovely! A perfect nuthatch !” 

This was the latest Torlish expression, in fond memory 
of the “cuckoo.” 


YOUTH WINS 


304 

How pretty she looked! Mrs. Bickersteth felt a sud¬ 
den thrill of pride. But how had she guessed what to 
do? 

“Well, come and give your mother a kiss?” 

“Rather!” 

The fresh lips pressed her cheek, and Mrs. Bickersteth 
could hold her news back no longer. 

“I’m afraid it won’t be much use to you at the Agricul¬ 
tural College,” she said. 

She waited breathlessly. Elsie had gone quite pale. 

“Mother!” she cried. 

“Yes. We’re going to try and afford it. Your father 
and I have talked it over.” 

There was no doubt now of Elsie’s feelings. Mrs. 
Bickersteth stepped back, throttled. 

“And I thought the hat was a bribe!” burst from her 
daughter’s repentant lips. “Oh, you are dears! I will 
work. Some day I’ll repay you and we’ll set old Torlish 
on its legs. This is the jolliest day of my life!” 

In this spirit, she listened to advice—loads of advice 
—from her mother and was told by her father when he 
appeared that it could be discussed later and she had 
better get ready for dinner. 

They went down, a united trio. Mrs. Bickersteth nobly 
chose the seat with its back to the door, at the table 
reserved for them. Her husband and daughter should 
watch the visitors coming in, since it was her own favour¬ 
ite amusement. There was no one very exciting at present 
and Elsie poured out Torlish news. How Lady Fownes 
had mistaken Sir Geoffrey Bingham for a poacher and 
ordered him out of the woods, as he was taking a short 


YOUTH WINS 


305 

cut to see father at the Manor, and had added insult to 
injury by sending him the very next day some early 
asparagus with a gushing, apologetic letter. Sir Geoffrey 
had left this unwelcome gift at the Cottage Hospital, 
with her ladyship’s card attached—and the matron had 
promptly written to thank her! 

Mrs. Bickersteth chuckled and asked for more. She 
was carefully dissecting her fish when Elsie paused in the 
midst of a sentence. 

“Look, father!” 

Both pairs of eyes were gazing fixedly at the door. 

“What is it?” Mrs. Bickersteth asked. “Something 
French?” 

“No.” Elsie gave her father a wicked glance. “She 
must have followed you here,from the boat!” 

“Sh! She’ll hear you.” The Squire frowned. 

“But who is it?” his wife persisted. 

“It’s father’s dream in the woollen cloak! I must say 
she’s awfully pretty.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth was intrigued. 

“If I turn my head, can I see her?” 

“One minute! They’re sitting down. Now,” Elsie 
prompted. “On your right! They won’t notice you, 
they’re talking.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth peered over her shoulder, her gaze 
drifting from table to table. It was suddenly arrested. 
Her eyes protruded; she caught her breath. 

That golden head bent forward, the delicate line of 
throat and chin rising from the black dress, and the smile 
parting the girl’s lips as she listened to her companion— 
all were poignantly familiar! 


YOUTH WINS 


306 

“It’s Joceline! ” Mrs. Bickersteth gasped. “With—yes, 
it must be—Oliver!” 

She was rising, when Elsie clutched her arm. 

“Don’t! He’s seen you—he’s coming across. Do you 
know them?” The truth broke in on her, at the sight of 
her mother’s excited face. “Not your Bagnoles love¬ 
birds ? How priceless! ” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


“ T WISH we’d known who you were,” said Elsie to 
Joceline, “when you cast the mantle of Elijah over 
father on the boat.” She gave him a wicked 
glance. “I wonder he didn’t prophesy that we should meet 
you here to-night!” 

Mrs. Bickersteth frowned at her daughter. She dis¬ 
approved of such allusions, but she felt too happy sitting 
there in the smoke-wreathed gallery, serving coffee to her 
guests, to correct Elsie openly. Here, at last, was the 
end of her journey; her lovers reconciled. 

“It’s never wise to be a prophet where uncertain people 
are concerned,” Joceline responded, smiling, “and we were 
a day late already. We’d planned everything so nicely” 
—she turned to her hostess—“and then we were kept, at 
the last moment, by legal business. We meant to be here 
to receive you when you arrived from Bagnoles. It was 
very disappointing, but lawyers are so slow!” 

In her sapphire eyes was a hint of mischief and Trench, 
amused, divined the cause. 

“I’m not a lawyer now,” he retorted. “And you can’t 
accuse me of want of hustle!” 

“I can’t! ” Joceline laughed. Unconsciously she looked 
down at her new wedding-ring. “But I wish now we’d sent 
you a wire,” she told Mrs. Bickersteth. “Only it would 
have spoilt our ‘surprise.’ I never dreamed you’d go to the 
Convent on the first morning you arrived.” For she had 
307 


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308 

learnt of this adventure. “And then to be turned away 
like that! It was Sceur Agnes and she’s always grumpy 
when they’re busy with the holiday cleaning. But of 
course, poor thing, she couldn’t know whom you meant 
by Mary Gringold. If you’d said ‘Sceur Marie-Angeli- 
que,’ there wouldn’t have been any trouble. I am sorry.” 

“It doesn’t matter now, my dear.” Mrs. Bickersteth 
beamed at her. How sweet she looked with her hair ar¬ 
ranged in that pretty, soft way, and the faint colour in 
her cheeks due to shyness and excitement, the knowledge 
of the secrets they shared. As to Trench, he seemed a 
different man, “I’m only so pleased to see you again and 
to hear all your news. Your great news.” She sighed sen¬ 
timentally. 

“Well, we hadn’t much time to lose,” said Trench, for 
the benefit of the others. “I’m due to sail in a week and 
I didn’t like the idea of Joceline coming out later to marry 
me. All that long journey alone. My partners have been 
very patient and it’s getting a busy time on the ranch.” 

Elsie, immediately interested, began to ply him with 
questions. Inevitably, he praised the climate and, catch¬ 
ing his wife’s eyes, laughed. 

“Joceline says I’m to be fined whenever I boast about 
it now—that it’s my staple conversation! But really, 
you know, it is —” He stopped and joined in the joke 
against himself. 

“I thought it was only in England that we fell back 
on the weather,” the Squire put in unexpectedly. 
“Though, of course, from a different standpoint. Cali¬ 
fornia is one of the places that I’ve always wished to 
visit.” 


YOUTH WINS 


309 

“Then come to us next winter?” Trench responded 
eagerly. “All of you. That would be fine!” He turned 
to Mrs. Bickersteth. “Say you will?” 

“We’ll see,” she temporized wisely. 

Their eyes met, hers filled with questions. She was 
aching to hear the whole story and to get Oliver to herself. 
If only she could find some excuse! It was exasperating 
to talk in this conventional fashion, hampered by her 
family, who knew the bare outline of the romance, but held 
no idea of its secret depths. For she had been scrupu¬ 
lously loyal, both to the living and the dead. She won¬ 
dered how Joceline and Trench had met. Had Joceline 
run away from the Convent, or her lover discovered her 
address and effected a rescue? The notion thrilled 
her. A ladder? That high wall! Her imagination 
rioted. 

At last her husband unconsciously offered a loophole 
for her escape. The smoke from his cigar had drifted 
across the table into her face. Recoiling, she waved it 
aside with her hand. He apologized: 

“I’m sorry, my dear. Is it too much for you?” 

“A little.” She snatched at the straw and rose. “I 
think I’ll go into the drawing-room. No, don’t let me dis¬ 
turb you all!” She checked the universal movement. 
“Unless—” Boldly, she smiled at Trench. 

“May I come too?” His eyes twinkled. “I’d love to 
have a chat with you.” 

“If your wife can spare you?” she answered sweetly. 

“Of course.” Joceline gave her a glance of affectionate 
comprehension. 

“We’ll look after her,” said Elsie, mischief in her hazel 


3 io YOUTH WINS 

eyes. They said plainly: “Give father an innings!” and 
the squire fidgeted. 

They watched Mrs. Bickersteth sail out, turreted and 
superb, Trench beside her, a willing convoy. 

“I love your mother,” Joceline confided. “You don’t 
know how good she’s been to us. As a matter of fact, 
we came back to Paris to see her again and say good-bye.” 

“No?” Elsie was inwardly pleased. “She’s all right.” 

Her voice was deliberately indifferent, but it did not 
deceive her companion. She guessed the strong link be¬ 
tween them; the gulf dividing age and youth bridged by 
a common forbearance. They might quarrel, but they 
would make it up and forget that the same blood flowed 
in their veins: the bitterest incitement to battle. For, of 
all conflicts, civil war is the most exhausting and pro¬ 
longed. 

The Squire, with an effort, broke the silence that had 
fallen on the trio. He remarked that London had been 
full—unusually full. Yes, quite—er—inconveniently 
crowded. Perhaps Mrs. Trench had noticed this? 

She had. Conscious of duty performed, he sank into a 
state of coma whilst the two young people chatted. He 
was a little annoyed with his wife for leaving them. He 
never wanted to talk to her, but he liked to have her by 
his side. This was his idea of marriage. It was always 
the same at Torlish. However busy she might be, she 
must break off her occupation when he felt this inchoate 
need of her. Not to help him, exactly, but to be there! 
She could talk if she liked, but she mustn’t expect per¬ 
petual answers or attention. He had his own affairs to 
think of. 


YOUTH WINS 


3 ii 

Sometimes his wife revolted. It seemed to her that a 
faithful old dog would fill the position admirably, as they 
paced up and down the garden, silent, or sat, in the hush 
sacred to it, before the fire in his library. 

Such a waste of time! But she tried to be patient, 
because he loved her and she knew that in any serious 
crisis he would stand by her, to the death. 

But now she had a “live” man, who belonged to a 
younger generation, to stir in her that second youth—of 
the mind, not the body—which is so often the reward of 
the simple and sincere after the knell of the fifties has 
sounded and has nothing in common with the desire, actu¬ 
ated by secret despair, of the sensual woman battling 
with age. For here was Trench, swift-minded, respon¬ 
sive; above all, here was Romance. 

They decided against the salon with its usual evening 
atmosphere of segregation and listening ears. Trench 
suggested sitting outside in the little gravelled strip be¬ 
tween the hotel and the high railings that cut off the 
passers-by. 

“But you mustn’t catch cold,” he added. “Can’t I run 
up and get you a wrap?” 

“If you will.” She told him the number of her room. 
“Just tap at the door. Piper’s there. She likes to look 
out and watch the trams.” 

“Ah, I want to see Nanna—and give her a kiss! Do 
you think she’d be shocked?” He laughed as his com¬ 
panion reproved him. “You don’t know what I owe 
her! She wrote and told me Joceline’s train. In a let¬ 
ter with a pair of socks which I had left behind at 
Bagnoles.” 


312 


YOUTH WINS 


“Piper did?” Mrs. Bickersteth stared. “She never 
said a word to me.” 

He grinned. 

“You don’t know all my flirtations! What’s more, she 
registered the parcel and that proved my salvation. I was 
just going out and the porter stopped me to sign the re¬ 
ceipt for it. When I saw the Bagnoles postmark, I tore 
it open and found the letter. So I was there at the sta¬ 
tion. But I’ll tell you when I come down.” 

He vanished up the narrow staircase. 

Mrs. Bickersteth stood there, wondering. Piper! Who 
would have believed it? And to keep it dark all this 
time. Suddenly she remembered those socks. Not Rich¬ 
ard’s, after all. She had put them in her knitting-bag and 
then forgotten their existence. 

She looked up. Trench was returning, her warm cloak 
over his arm, his face wearing a broad smile. 

“I did it!” He folded the cloak about her. “And she 
asked for some more socks to mend. I call that an invi¬ 
tation! But what a dear old thing she is. She blessed 
me like a mother.” 

“She’s a treasure,” her mistress responded. “Now, 
Oliver, tell me everything.” 

“I will—outside.” 

Passing through the open door, they found a seat away 
from the windows, between tubs filled with geraniums, 
above them a lilac in full bloom. Its scent seemed to en¬ 
close the pair in some dear and remembered fairy-tale, 
the tall gate with its gilt scrolls heightening the illusion. 
They were safe here, in a castle garden, the Seine beyond 
them for a moat, mysterious in the evening light. Paris 



YOUTH WINS 


3 i 3 

was a world apart, with its fever and allurements, its all- 
pervading suggestion of sex and its glittering materialism. 
But here was the fulfilment of dreams. A love that had 
passed through the fire, to emerge, purified. 

Mrs. Bickersteth breathed it in as she listened to 
Trench’s earnest voice. 

“1 was ready, on the platform, waiting. She hadn’t 
time to defend herself and I drove her to the Convent. 
But I couldn’t shake her resolution, although I knew that 
she cared. She’d got it fixed in her mind that we’d killed 
her mother and mustn’t marry. That it would be a sin. 
So, at last, I told her the truth.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth started. 

“Not—the cachets?” There was horror in her voice. 

“Yes. I knew it was kill or cure—for me, I mean, and 
my hopes—but I risked it. And I was right. It removed 
the heavier burden. Her mother might have lived to a 
hundred. I proved, too, that it wasn’t an impulse. It 
had been done deliberately, for a cruel punishment. One 
must forgive the dead”—he stared through the railing 
sombrely—“but one can’t forget. That’s human nature. 
Even in the gentlest minds, they stand judged by their 
acts: their good deeds and their bad, their loyalties 
and treacheries. It’s easy to blot out weakness, but ty¬ 
ranny, never!” His jaw hardened. “From first to last, 
man expects justice. He mayn’t get it, but that’s his ideal.” 

“You’re right.” Mrs. Bickersteth nodded her head 
solemnly. “But —poor Joceline! ” 

“Yes. It felt like striking her. She sat there, all 
broken up, and I daren’t even take her hand. And then, 
to leave her at the Convent!” His voice was husky as 


YOUTH WINS 


3 i 4 

he continued, “I’ll never forget watching her go through 
that door in the wall and the bolts grind after her. I 
thought then I’d lost her for ever.” 

“It’s a dreadful place!” Mrs. Bickersteth shuddered. 

“I’m not so sure. Wait till you hear the rest of the 
story. I think you’ll be rather surprised.” He gave her 
a fleeting smile. “Well, I went away. She’d promised me 
that I should see her once again before I sailed, and I 
held her to it. She wanted five days to herself, to devote 
to her mother’s memory. Of course, I agreed to this. I 
didn’t tell you of our meeting because it all seemed so 
hopeless. Time enough when you came to Paris. I 
thought you’d had your share of worry! ” He laid a hand 
over hers, which were folded in her lap. “But in five days 
I returned to the Convent. They admitted me, without 
trouble. The place seemed to be in a frenzy of cleaning, 
nuns scrubbing, and beating carpets, having a hell of a 
time! I’m sorry—the word slipped out.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth smiled indulgently. 

“Go on. You saw Joceline?” 

“Not at first. I was shown into the parlour and the 
Mother Superior came in. I didn’t like the look of that, 
but she put me at my ease at once by saying that Joce¬ 
line expected me and was engaged for the moment. Mean¬ 
while, she sat there and talked. A clever woman, I should 
think, plain and severe, but with beautiful hands. She 
asked me about California—had friends in a Catholic Mis¬ 
sion there, oddly enough, not far from us. I told her that 
many of our neighbours belonged to her Faith and, natu¬ 
rally, all the Spanish crowd. To tell you the truth, I was 
puzzled by some of the questions she put to me. At the 


YOUTH WINS 


3 T 5 

end, quite calmly, she suggested that, if I were going back 
shortly to England, she would be glad if I would take 
Joceline home to Norfolk.” 

“What?” Mrs. Bickersteth was staggered. 

“Exactly.” Trench nodded. “I was too astonished to 
reply and she went on to say that the school was reopen¬ 
ing and, although she was always glad to see old pupils 
on a short visit, they could not stay indefinitely. Where¬ 
upon I blurted out: ‘But Joceline wants to become a nun!’ 
And she smiled—yes, actually smilqd. It was time enough 
to consider that after she had been received into the 
Church. This needed serious preparation. Joceline must 
learn the lesson of patience. Of humility as well, etc. To 
cut it short, they didn’t want her!” 

“But her money?” cried Mrs. Bickersteth. “Did they 
know of her fortune?” 

“They did. So Joceline told me later. The Mother 
Superior had talked with her and, of course, had studied 
her in her childhood. She explained to me that, in her 
opinion, it was better for Joceline to recover from a period 
of shock and other matters”—Trench evaded a direct 
issue—“before she took such a serious decision. She must 
be sure of her vocation. Meanwhile she was better at 
home, where she could be quiet and reflect. But I needn’t 
trouble you with the rest.” 

“I’ve never heard anything so amazing! What did 
Joceline say to it all?” 

“Poor Joceline! ” His face was tender, yet a faint touch 
of humour curved his lips. “She was like a child with a 
broken bubble. She’s proud and it wasn’t exactly pleas¬ 
ing to have offered herself and all she possessed and then 


YOUTH WINS 


316 

to be told to ‘think it over’! They’d been pretty severe 
with her too; given her, I fancy, a foretaste of the real 
conventual life as distinct from her happy schooldays. 
If she hadn’t loved me it might have made her still more 
determined. Luckily, I was there, at the psychological 
moment.” He drew a deep breath and resumed the story. 
“I drove her out to St. Cloud and we went up into the 
woods. I guess”—he smiled—“the woods did it! Walden” 
Mrs. Bickersteth wondered, but did not like to interrupt 
him. “I told her, too, what I believe; that, if the dead 
can still see us, they must see us clearly, without delusion, 
no longer swayed by earthly passions. To renounce all 
thoughts of happiness, in memory of her mother’s jealous 
and possessive nature, might prolong her spirit’s suffering 
—possibly its punishment. One can’t tell; one can only 
guess.” He stared out, over the high railings, in a vain 
effort to pierce the veil. “But that’s how I feel—honestly. 
And aren’t we told to let the dead bury the dead and re¬ 
turn to the living? Anyhow I made her see that she 
would be ruining two lives and you know the result.” He 
ended abruptly, “We crossed to England next day, got 
married and came back—to you!” 

“My dear, I’m so thankful.” She was touched. But 
she could not forget the dark side of the story and her 
conscience was pricking her. “Did the Mother Superior 
know everything?” 

“Everything.” His face was grave. 

“Ah!” Mrs. Bickersteth straightened her shoulders. 
Then that was the reason! The girls returning, young 
creatures in the Mother’s charge. Yes, she had acted 
wisely. It was a scholastic foundation, not a home for 


YOUTH WINS 


3i7 

penitents. Now, she must speak, herself. “Oliver?” She 
steadied her voice. “I haven’t had a chance before of 
talking to you about—Domfront. But it was very wrong. 
I could hardly believe it of you! Marriage cannot alter 
the fact. I feel it my duty to say this plainly.” 

Trench shifted on the seat. Now he was facing her. 
Bravely she met his eyes. They were filled with a be¬ 
wilderment that slowly gave place to anger. 

“But— Good Lord, you don’t think—” He broke off, 
watching her. “You do! Well, you might have trusted 
me. It was only to force Mrs. Verney’s hand. A sin, if 
you like, against convention but, as to anything more, I 
swear that Joceline was safe with me. Why, even the 
Mother Superior guessed! Do you think, if not, she’d 
have allowed me to take Joceline back to England? Of 
course she was down on us for the whole business of run¬ 
ning away and for deceiving Mrs. Verney and she put me 
through my paces finely when we returned re-engaged— 
made me promise about the children being Catholic and 
so forth—but that, no! She had the grace to believe us 
there.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth’s ruddy cheeks had paled. She had 
never felt so humiliated! To be held up as an unflatter¬ 
ing contrast to the head of a convent and accused of har¬ 
bouring evil thoughts—she who detested Catholics! And 
to be corrected by a man young enough to be her son and 
not—not of the same caste! For old traditions die hard. 
It was a cruel insult. 

She nearly swept to her feet and left him. Then every¬ 
thing that was fine in her—the real charity of the woman 
—rose to her aid, fought and conquered. 


YOUTH WINS 


3i8 

“Thank God!” The tears stood in her eyes. “I’ve 
wronged you, Oliver. Please forgive me?” 

“That’s all right.” His face softened. “I guess it 
looked rather bad.” A sudden thought shot through him. 
“But it makes it all the more wonderful that you should 
have been so good to us.” His eyes widened. “Standing 
by Joceline through the funeral and thinking that —say¬ 
ing nothing! You didn’t?” he asked her anxiously. 

“She had quite enough to bear,” Mrs. Bickersteth re¬ 
minded him. 

“Well! ” He looked at her with the old boyish affection. 
“All I can say is—” 

He didn’t say it. Mrs. Bickersteth seemed to sway 
towards him. For the second time that evening, Trench, 
with an inward chuckle, kissed a woman other than his 
wife. 

“It’s made me very happy,” Mrs. Bickersteth said in¬ 
coherently. She was not referring to the kiss. “And now 
I must hear, my dear—I’ve really been very patient— 
what it was Mrs. Verney said when she refused her con¬ 
sent. Of course, I didn’t ask Joceline in a time of such 
sorrow and I couldn’t get at you. Well?” She straight¬ 
ened the comb in her hair and looked expectantly at 
Trench. 

“Didn’t you know? I’d forgotten that.” He was 
studying her thoughtfully. “It was the crux of the whole 
business, what tied my hands—that horrible secret! I 
know that you won’t repeat it.” He waited for her an¬ 
swering nod. “Mrs. Verney said that Joceline’s old ill¬ 
ness had never been a nervous breakdown, but a mental 


YOUTH WINS 


3i9 

trouble, now dormant, but liable to recur, with any shock 
or violent emotion.” 

“No! ” Mrs. Bickersteth recoiled. 

She saw the man’s face harden. 

“Sure. Moreover, in the doctor’s opinion, her only 
chance was a quiet life. She was unfit for marriage and 
especially for childbirth. If she survived that ordeal, the 
offspring might be feeble-minded—some degeneracy in 
the blood. In Mrs. Verney’s family there had been a case 
of religious mania and that frightened me still more, for 
I knew that Joceline was keen on religion. I dare 
say you noticed that Sir Raphael kept harping on the sub¬ 
ject?” Mrs. Bickersteth looked bewildered, but Trench 
went on with his story. “A lie, but so cleverly constructed. 
It excused Mrs. Verney’s tight hold on Joceline. She was 
not only mother, but keeper. And of course none of those 
men who admired my poor girl had dared to tell her. 
They just believed it and went away. To marry her 
might seal her doom. I almost believed it myself! It 
was all so plausible—the way Mrs. Verney told it. But 
there again, you came to the rescue.” 

“I?” Mrs. Bickersteth was puzzled. 

“Yes—without knowing it. You introduced me to Sir 
Raphael and of course I had heard of his reputation. That 
day I met you on the hill, I was on my way to him. I 
put the whole case before him and he proved himself a 
friend indeed. As long as I live I shall be grateful. It 
was he who planned the day at Domfront. All the 
time, he was testing Joceline, watching the effect upon 
her of wine, argument, and so forth.” He paused. Mrs. 


320 


YOUTH WINS 


Bickersteth had started, remembering the little scene in 
the doorway, Sir Raphael spying on the lovers. “After¬ 
wards he gave me his verdict,” Trench resumed, as she 
did not speak. “He could find no abnormal symptoms; 
he considered her highly-strung, but sane. He was right, 
for if anything could have unbalanced her reason it was 
the shock of her mother’s death. And do you suppose 
Mrs. Verney would have committed suicide if she had 
believed that this would have meant an asylum for her 
only child? No.” He clenched his fist, his eyes averted. 
“I try, but I can’t forgive her!” 

“But why did she do it? I’ve never heard anything so 
unnatural! ” It seemed to Mrs. Bickersteth that a chill had 
descended on the garden. She sat there, inwardly shiver¬ 
ing; her motherhood had received a shock. 

“Because she wasn’t sane herself!” Trench saw his 
companion’s look of horror and nodded solemnly. “Her 
manner of death proved this. She preferred to take her 
own life rather than to abdicate—that’s the truth! Ac¬ 
cording to Sir Raphael, her egoism was a disease . She was 
eaten up with vanity, jealous of, and for, her daughter. 
A love that was as cruel as hate. She must stand first, 
whatever happened. In fact, monomania. But Joceline 
has persuaded herself that Mrs. Verney had faith in the 
story. She didn’t know what nerves meant and had 
always despised them—mixed them up with hysteria. 
Their old village doctor had muddled the case, confusing 
the cause with love-affairs, thwarted instincts, and all that 
rot, though the specialists knew better. Joceline was ut¬ 
terly played-out, her strength absorbed by her parent. 
You can’t nurse the old, night and day, without rest, 


YOUTH WINS 


321 


when they’re like Mrs. Verney, and not pay a heavy 
price. On the top of the War, too, and limited food and 
the shock of losing father and lover. Only her pluck 
pulled her through. It was nearly too late when she came 
to Bagnoles. She was ripe for a decline. But, thank 
God—” He broke off, the muscles in his face working. 

“Thank God, indeed. She’ll be happy now,” Mrs. 
Bickersteth said in her soothing voice. 

“In time,” Trench corrected gravely. “She still grieves 
and blames herself. I’ll be glad to get her right away into 
a new life. She’s set on becoming a Catholic, but what 
does it matter? So long as the religion helps her. That’s 
all one asks for. Something to hold to.” He added, under 
his breath, “There’s only one God—with different names.” 

“Perhaps.” Mrs. Bickersteth sighed. “I suppose I’m 
a very broad-minded woman.” 

Trench smiled at this in the warm darkness that had 
slowly encroached on the dusk. Lamps were glowing on 
the road. On the bridge, fairy-like, a string of lights 
made a pathway, with another tremulous one beneath, like 
falling sparks that the river lapped. Paris wore her 
diadem, to dazzle and hide the wounds of war. 

From far away came the endless murmur of a city that 
sought its nepenthe of pleasure after the long day’s work, 
but here, save for the purr of the trams and an occasional 
step or voice, was the silence of mysterious boughs and 
the scent of the lilac. 

A spring night, calling to lovers. It awoke in Trench a 
longing to be with Joceline, alone, yet he did not like to 
make a move. His companion looked so peaceful. He 
was amused when she broke the silence by asking him in 


322 YOUTH WINS 

a dreamy voice what he would do with his place in Nor¬ 
folk. 

“Joceline’s? She’s going to let it.” 

Mrs. Bickersteth stirred. 

“Oh, what a pity! Such a lovely old house—and you 
could have lived there? Besides, it’s been in the family 
for centuries. It does seem sad.” She had a bright idea. 
“There must be some land to farm. Why not, instead of 
California?” 

“No, thanks. I’ll farm my own. Why, you don’t think, 
at my age, I’d potter about on Joceline’s money?” He 
smiled scornfully. “Now, too, when I’ve got my chance. 
That ranch of ours is going to be some success, I can tell 
you! We can build a separate bungalow. I don’t mind 
her helping in that, because it’s for her own comfort. But 
as to—” He stopped and his face lit up. 

From the shadowy darkness of the doorway came a 
clear call: 

“Hullo, you two! ” Elsie stepped down into the garden, 
Joceline by her side. “We began to think you’d eloped! 
Father has gone to bed.” 

“To bed?” Mrs. Bickersteth was indignant. “It isn’t 
late.” Somewhat stiffly, she rose from the bench. “Thank 
you,” she murmured, for Trench’s hand had slipped under 
her elbow. He would go through life, she thought, help¬ 
ing lame dogs over stiles. So “straight” too. She had 
always known it! “We’re coming in,” she told Elsie. 

“About time! It’s past eleven. We’ve been playing 
dominoes.” 

“No!” Her mother was horrified. She put a hand on 
Joceline’s arm. “My dear, what must you have thought 


YOUTH WINS 


323 


of me?” She peered through the darkness at the pale 
oval of her face. Yes, suffering had left its mark, but 
love and freedom would wipe it out. “I’ve been keeping 
Oliver from you.” 

“But we came back purposely to see you, and Oliver 
had so much to say. He always has!” she added, smiling. 

“A very good thing in a husband too,” Mrs. Bicker- 
steth said warmly. “You’ll be glad of it in later years.” 
Her voice sank to a whisper. “I am so thankful all is 
well. You deserve happiness—both of you.” 

It was her amende honorable . 

Elsie had slipped past them and was talking eagerly to 
Trench. In the warm silence, her words drifted back: 

“. . . One of my own. Isn’t it great? After I’ve done 
my course at the College. Oh, they haven’t promised it— 
it all depends on my work. But I’m not afraid of that!” 

Youth? Mrs. Bickersteth’s heart was full. She wanted 
to mother all the world. But she mustn’t keep the lovers 
waiting. 

“Come, Elsie! It’s time for bed. Say good night to 
Mr. Trench.” Again she embraced Joceline. “No, you 
stay here, dear, with Oliver.” She turned to him for sup¬ 
port. “It’s a lovely night. It will do her good to have a 
little fresh air and that lilac smells delicious. Oh, look at 
the lights on the bridge! ” 


THE END 
















































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